


The Wolf Comes Home

by alamorn



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-01-16 19:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: Daryl meant to rob the Greenes, not turn the youngest one into a werewolf. But his plans have never worked out the way he wanted them to, so why would they start now?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a NaNo project -- not promising it will reach 50k, it's done when it's done, and I'm posting with only the most minimal of proofreading, so, you know, if you see a horrible dropped sentence, let me know.
> 
> I'm deliberately doing a mixed time period, primarily 1930s but drawing from whatever. If there's an unnecessarily detailed historical aside, it's probably directly drawn from one of the books I read in the past year. If you're interested in learning more, please ask! I'm always happy to talk books, but I'm probably not going to footnote each chapter lol
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy!

The youngest Greene girl had been ill since her mother and brother passed, and the rest of the Greenes weren't much better. The whole family had collapsed in on itself. If the older daughter hadn't come to town every few weeks to pick up food and news, the town would have suspected a sinkhole or plague of taking the whole damn farm. 

Daryl had decided to rob them after the first person he'd talked to. After the third, he could feel their money in his pockets. 

It wasn't that he wanted to kick a family while they were down, though he didn't shy from it, neither. It was that no one in this tight knit little town seemed inclined to check up on them. The Greene father, apparently, had gone mean in his grief before the youngest went mad in hers. And Daryl, who hadn't eaten anything he hadn't caught himself in the past month, was not going to pass up an easy target.

He lingered around town a while longer for the dubious pleasure of seeing humans, relearning how they moved and talked and interacted. He wasn't much good at it, even when he was in practice, and he was badly out of that. When he walked, he felt unbalanced. When he talked, his lips were clumsy and stiff.

Before the sun fell, he made a show of leaving town in the opposite direction to the Greene farm, moving on for lack of work. It was probably unnecessary; the Depression had hit Senoia, Georgia just as hard as everywhere else, and Daryl was hardly the only drifter coming through. He'd seen a few others hanging around the General Store and the bar, had spoken to a few briefly. But he knew what he looked like, knew that he would be at the top of the list of suspects.

He doubled back and circled the town, fighting the urge to go to all fours, knowing that if he did, he wouldn't want to turn back for another month and this was the sort of opportunity that didn't come around often, especially these days. It was a cattle farm, they'd said in town, and he was about hungry enough to eat a cow. But that was for after he took all their money.

When he came to the farmhouse, he lingered in the woods, found a bush he could settle under with a good view of the door. Daryl was good at waiting, and watching. He could hold so still a ghost would walk past him. 

As he waited for night to fall, he saw a man, bearded and bald, pass from fields to barn, then head back accompanied by a skinny boy. Otherwise, there was little movement. In the late afternoon, a brunette rode in, dressed in men's clothes, with her hair cropped short. She headed straight for the house, and came out minutes later dragging a smaller woman, blonde. The younger girl, he assumed, as the brunette forced her onto the porch swing. He couldn't hear the words, but the argument was clear, and when the wind changed, he could smell them. Honest sweat and dirt off the brunette, rank with horse. The blonde smelled like a sickbed, though not of fever or pox.

He'd passed pox towns on his travels, had given them a wide berth. Daryl didn't fear much, didn't fear hunger or fists or weather gone scorching hot or freezing cold. He feared pox. 

There was a man he'd traveled with a while, just hopping cars in the same direction for a few days, and the man had been a talker, had told Daryl about his worst memory, about finding a rich man's home, empty but locked. It had stunk, he'd said, stunk of rot and shit and sickness, and he'd a broken a window, thinking maybe there would be someone to save, and if there weren't, something to steal. He'd had cowpox as a child, had yellow fever as a teen, had been hungrier than he'd been afraid.

He'd found a girl, eight and jaundiced so bad she looked deader than her family. She'd shoved herself in the closet, away from the corpses she'd been living with. He'd nearly burned his hands on her when he picked her up, he told Daryl. She was hotter than a coal box and still living. He'd carried her out, so horrified by that place of death he'd failed to pick up any payment for his troubles.

That was what bothered him when Daryl met him, twenty or more years after. That he'd failed to rob the house. "They weren't using it," he said to Daryl, loose limbed with the rotgut he cradled. "If I'd taken it, who knows where I'd be now? Not here," he said, staring blindly at the filthy boxcar they were squatting in. "Not here."

Daryl, who had not had the fever as a child, and considered that whole story an example of the kind of stupidity that had put the country into the shitter, had thought differently but said nothing. That wasn't the important part though, that wasn't what stuck with him. It was the description of the heat coming off the girl, the way the man seemed almost to still feel it, his hands flinching as he spoke.

So it was a great relief to him that the youngest girl smelled more _unwashed_ than _ill_. Unwashed didn't do anything to jewelry, or at least not anything that a good fence couldn't wash off. 

He waited for dark, for the hands to come back in, the lights to come on and then flicker off. And then, when he was about to stretch his aching legs, a light came back on, filtering through a curtain on the upper story. He paused and watched it. hoping for a weak bladder and a quick trip.

No luck. After a long moment, the light moved. He tracked it through the windows as it floated downstairs and then out the front door. The younger Greene girl carried it, the blonde. In the weak candle light she looked ghostly, her expression unreadable beyond the flickering shadows and distance. She headed for the horse barn and emerged after a few minutes with a saddled horse and -- a rope? Daryl frowned.

He didn't plan it, but found himself following her, justifying that he couldn't break the house till he knew she wouldn't walk back in on him. She rode slowly, clearly in no hurry to get wherever she was going, letting the horse keep its head. He stayed back far enough that if the wind were to change, the horse wouldn't scent him and spook -- horses didn't much care for his kind, he knew from experience.

About twenty minutes out, deep enough and far enough from any sort of trail that he was certain she wasn't _meeting_ someone, she stopped and dismounted, setting the candle down. Her white shift caught the light of the candle and the moon, turning her into a pale smudge across the deep shadows of the night.

He held back, still trying to figure out what exactly she was doing, stomach twisting with suspicion. From the distance and with the poor light, it was hard to see more than the broad strokes of her body, but he saw her remount the horse, leaving the candle on the rock where she'd set it. She nudged the horse over to a tree she'd been doing something with, and Daryl drew closer, pressure closing his throat. Her arms lifted and fell and he drew closer again, still uncertain that he was right, still terribly certain that he must be.

The wind shifted, bringing his scent to the horse, who screamed and reared, dumping the girl on its back. The rope around her neck caught her and held fast, and she dangled, choking and clutching where it bit into the white column of her flesh.

Daryl let instinct take over, charging her, ignoring the horse as it ran, nails growing sharp and long. He leapt, slashing at the rope where it held her, and caught her as she fell, body slack and warm. She landed heavily atop him, coughing painfully, pinning him in place as he tried to scramble away.

She shoved him hard in the shoulder, one handed, other hand clutching her neck and the mark that was swiftly blooming there. He could smell blood, and his stomach sank. "What the _heck_ do you think you're doing?" she snarled.

"Saving your damn life," he snarled in response.

"What gives you the right?" she asked, shoving him again. "Who even _are _you?"

His jaw worked, unable to answer either question and decided to bypass them. "What kind of dumb bitch decides to _kill_ herself when she's got everything in the world handed to her?"

"_Excuse me_?" she said, so furious she was wordless. "You don't know a thing about me, mister I-don't-even-know-who-you-are!"

"Your daddy hit you?" he asked.

"Of course not!"

He pressed, cruelly, the blood in his nose pulling him towards a frenzy. "Anyone touching you, you don't want 'em to be? You eating regular? You got a roof over your head, and it's a nice fucking roof, you got family around you that don't hurt you? What the hell you got to be running away from?"

"How _dare_ you," she started, and then went stiff, her hand falling from her throat and revealing three long scratches bleeding freely. As she began to seize, each muscle trying to go its own direction, he swore and turned them so she lay on the ground, her head cradled in his lap.

He didn't mean this. But not meaning something had never helped before.

The terror in her eyes was bright as moonlight as her muscles swelled and contracted, rolling and rippling under her skin. "You're okay," he said, not believing his own self. "You're okay."

When she stopped seizing, she turned her face into the denim covering his thigh, wet with her blood, her cuts scabbing and scabs cracking and flaking. "I didn't want this," she said quietly.

"No," he said, his own anger at low ebb. "But it's what you've got."

"What's happening to me?" she asked, voice small and fearful.

He hesitated, not wanting to tell her, not wanting to admit what he had done. "It's a Change," he said.

"Well, I've never had my head in a stranger's lap before, so I guess you're right," she said, wry. 

"No," he said. "I, uh. I turned you. Didn't mean to."

Slowly, painfully, she sat up, staring him dead in the eye as he tried to avoid her piercing gaze. "Turned me to what, stranger?"

"You're not gonna believe me, I tell you," he said. "Easier to show you."

"If you get your thingy out, I swear I will cut it off," she said and his eyebrows went up.

"You think I'd make a move on a girl I just stopped from killing herself?"

"I don't anything about you, mister," she said, "and I've heard stories about men who accost girls in the dark of night."

As much as Daryl wanted to take it personally, she made a plenty reasonable point. Begrudgingly, he began his own Change. Normally, he'd take his clothes off first, as getting wolves feet tangled in dungarees was beneath even his dignity, but he didn't want any part of him cut off.

It took her a moment to realize what was going on, but when she did, her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped slack and open. He didn't hide his face, kept eye contact with her all the while, as his muscles thickened, his bones shifted, face lengthened, until he stood before her as a wolf, draped in human clothes.

"Oh," she breathed. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Turn back, I have questions. You can turn back, right?"

He growled and reversed the change. Doing it both ways so quickly was exhausting, but it wasn't every day Daryl turned someone, and he... owed her, he supposed. It wasn't every day he turned someone. It wasn't _any_ day. He didn't know how this was going to go for her any better than she did, really, and he didn't want to turn back and admit all the answers he didn't have. He'd been born like this. He didn't know how it went, to be turned.

When he was human once more, she pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, keeping her eyes on him. "Start at the beginning," she said.

Well, he wasn't about to do _that_. "Your neck'll heal up fast," he said instead.

She touched it absently, then rubbed the dried blood from her fingers. "That don't matter. Am I gonna be allergic to silver now, turn at every full moon, lose my mind and try and eat my family?"

"Not unless you were prone to it before," he said, aiming for levity and missing.

She gave him a dirty look. "How many of the stories are true?"

He shrugged. "The fleas? You're just you, as a wolf. Animals'll be a little shy."

She bit her lip. "The hunters say werewolves are monsters."

Daryl snorted. "Everyone's a monster to someone. Won't make you into someone you're not."

Her mouth opened as if she were trying to speak and the words couldn't make it past where the rope had cut into her. Finally, she cleared her throat and tried again. "Will it -- will it hurt, every time?"

It had never hurt for him. "No," he said. "Not once you make the full Change."

She nodded, then buried her face in her knees and spoke through them, muffled. "Thank you. For saving me. I _do_ want to live."

He licked his lips. "Weren't nothing."

She glared at him. "It _was_. Even if you did turn me into a dang werewolf."

"Damn, girl, don't you know how to swear?" he asked, sliding right past any questions of gratitude.

"My _name_ is Beth," she said. "And I owe you. And you owe me."

"Daryl," he grunted. "Sounds like they cancel each other out."

"Nope," she said, popping the p. "You're stuck with me, Mister Daryl. You gotta teach me how to be a wolf."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Dogs of War, Blue Saraceno. Flower, Liz Phair. She Said, The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion.

Beth walked home, dizzy with possibility. Her neck ached and her shoes were unsuited to the woods, but she hadn't been so happy in months -- or, not happy, exactly, but alive and glad to be that way. She had realized, as Nelly spooked under her, that she _didn't_ want to die. She'd thought of all the things she wouldn't get to do. Since her mama died, and Shawn with her, Beth hadn't had one thing she'd wanted to do. But as the rope had snapped tight, she'd thought _I'll never get to swim again_, and that had been worse than the terrible months that came before.

And then that Daryl Dixon had saved her, never mind that he was an awful brute about it. 

She switched direction once she hit the treeline, heading for the duck pond instead of the house, kicking her thin slippers off at the edge and walking straight into the mud. The water was shockingly cold, and she fancied she could smell better than she had before, a mixed blessing with the muck of the duck pond. But she walked until she was deep enough to kick off the bottom and float on her back, staring up at the thick crescent of the moon, the creamy band of stars.

She took a deep breath, deep enough that her ribs strained, and held it for as long as she could stand, focusing on each and every sensation. The pressure in her lungs, the lap of water against her toes, the way her nightgown and hair pulled and moved with their own gravity, here in the otherworld of the water.

She was _alive_, and more than just that. She was different. Not just in her head; physically.

Mr. Dixon had been unforthcoming, but she'd bullied out of him some information on what to expect. A craving for meat, he'd said. A fondness for solitude. Well, what he'd said was he hated the chatter of people and she weren't doing much to change his mind, but she'd translated from _grump_ to something that made sense to her. 

The Change, what there was of it, had been terrifying when she didn't know what it was. She lifted her hand and examined the back of it in the bright moonlight. No hair pushed against the surface, no claws erupted from her nail beds. It was her own hand, same as it had ever been. Beth tried to imagine it as a wolf's paw, rough pads and short toes, and couldn't, quite.

But she could imagine running. Full speed, under the night sky.

Daryl was a drifter. She'd gotten _that_, at least, out of him. Reluctant as he was to talk of himself and what he had done to her, she knew he had no home, had no family waiting for him to come back. Knew he'd been alone for a long time, traveling as human and wolf alike. Knew he was lonely, from how easily he'd caved to her demands; that he stay, that he teach her, that he take work at the farm, if she could convince her Daddy to hire another hand, so he would be accessible to her.

She closed her eyes and floated there in the dark, trying to feel any differences in her body. Her heart beat strongly, pulse throbbing in her throat, but it was possible her heart had been beating all along and she had only forgotten to listen for it.

Eyes still closed, she howled softly, letting the sound vibrate up her throat and into the clear night air. It sounded thin and human and almost silly, but it was impossible to be ashamed here and now, scabs thick on her neck, heart beating in her chest. She was alive, and there was no shame in that.

After another moment, she rolled over and swam back to shore, long easy strokes, then walked through the mud, reveling in the squelch and seep between her toes. She carried her slippers to the barn to let Nelly in, watching her feet as she untacked her, feeding her a carrot in apology for Beth's ill-use of her.

Then, exhaustion dragging at her, she headed into the house, where she'd never expected to be again. She tracked mud on the floor, dropped her wet nightgown in a pile on the floor and collapsed into bed, filthy and satisfied.

She woke to Maggie's hand on her shoulder. "_What_, exactly, did _you_ get up to last night?" Maggie demanded. "What is on your neck?" She didn't wait for Beth to answer grabbing her jaw and pulling her jaw up, hissing a sharp breath through her teeth. "What the hell is this?"

Beth shoved her hands away, hiking the sheet up higher on her nakedness. "None of your beeswax."

"None of my beeswax?" Maggie said incredulously. "You tracked mud everywhere in the middle of the night and you got your whole damn throat near ripped open."

"It's _not_ that bad," Beth said, though she hadn't taken a look at the wound at any point, just trusted Daryl when he'd said it would heal fast. She touched it, felt the dried blood flake away under her nails, the tender ridges of each slash, not even remotely healed. "Don't tell Daddy."

"There's no _telling_ involved," Maggie said. "He sees you, he's gonna know."

"Tell him I'm sick," Beth demanded, sitting up, sheet clutched to her chest. 

"I will _not_," Maggie said, "not unless you tell me ex_actly_ what happened."

"I," Beth said and stopped. What could she tell her sister? That she'd tried to kill herself and been turned into a werewolf? None of that would come anywhere near soothing Maggie's temper. But what lie would explain her neck? "I wanted to swim last night."

"And the ducks took offense?" Maggie said archly.

"_No_," Beth snapped. "Can you just trust me? It's not --" she heaved a sigh, exasperated and confused, and so, so grateful to be alive and arguing with her sister. "I made a decision last night, and I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere, and I'm asking you to trust me."

Maggie stared searchingly at her for a long moment, long enough that Beth was sure she would say no and drag Beth out and make her confess it all to Daddy. Finally, she pulled a face. "Fine, but you're coming to town with me tomorrow. _And_ doing all my chores for the week."

"Deal," Beth said, "now get _out_ of my room."

"You better get up and clean those floors quick, before Daddy gets up, or me agreeing won't do nothing for you," Maggie teased, heading for the door.

"Get _out_," Beth whined, looking for something to throw. Her hand landed on a book that had laid unread on her bedside table for the past three months, bookmark still stuck at page twenty.

Maggie laughed when the book hit the wall next to her, closing the door with a thump that was guaranteed to wake Hershel.

"Eat a horse apple!" called Beth, scrambling out of bed and going to her dresser. She'd been near bedbound since Mama and Shawn died, hadn't gotten much use from her clothes, and she wanted to wear something bright. She shoved a few brown and white dresses aside, and found the last thing Annette had made, before she died; a bright blue cotton housedress, not quite the fashion but made with a steady hand.

Beth crumpled the dress to her face for a moment, inhaling deeply, searching for any lingering scent from Annette's hands. It smelled only of the cedar of her dresser, but pulling it over her head felt like an embrace anyway. Once she was dressed, Beth looked at herself in the mirror -- she'd lost weight since Annette had made the dress, and it hung a little loose on her, but it still made her look bright and new, the collar high enough to cover the bottom of the scratches.

Her hair was a rats nest, her feet brown with ground in dirt. She stuck her tongue out at her reflection and headed for the bathroom, to clean herself up for the best impression on her father. Her attack would be powerful and comprehensive and she didn't want him distracted by her appearance.

She sat on the edge of the tub, running water over her feet and struggling a brush through her hair, humming, then singing quietly. 

The knock startled her, and she paused in her singing. "I'll be done soon," she called.

"I heard the singing," Hershel said through the door, and Beth pulled her hair over the scratches.

"Come in," she said, and the door opened immediately. Guilt washed over her in a sick wave; her daddy was so desperate to see her well.

"Bethy," he said. "It's good to hear your voice."

She smiled, trying to keep her uninjured side to him. Now wasn't the time to tell him everything. Now was just to reassure him that she was well, that he had his daughter back. "It's good to sing," she said. "I'm sorry I've been so sad lately. I'm here now."

He took a hesitant step towards her, then another, until he could pull her against his chest and press a kiss to the crown of her head. Beth blinked hard, eyes welling, as she stared at the soft striped cotton work shirt an inch before her eyes. Hershel had been hurting as much as she had, but he hadn't withdrawn the way she did. Guilt threatened to rise up, but Beth forced it back. She'd made a mistake. Now was the time to unmake it.

"I love you, Daddy," she said quietly and he hugged her tighter. Then he paused, sifted her hair to the side. 

"What's this?" he asked, voice gone tight with fear. "Did someone hurt you?" He paused, looking at the wound. "Some animal?"

Beth had lied to her father regularly and well, mostly about spats with Maggie and Shawn, but this was different. No lies rose to her lips. Instead, she found herself speaking the truth. "Someone _helped_ me," she said. At his disbelieving breath, she pulled back, holding his hands and his gaze. "Last night, I went out to- to kill myself. I took Nelly and a rope."

"Oh, Bethy," he said, airless as if she'd drawn back and punched him hard in the stomach.

She plowed on, unwilling to be stopped there, before the end. "A man saved me. He followed me, and he -- he cut me down, Daddy, before I could do much more than gasp. This," she lay a hand over the scratches, "is just... incidental. It's not the point. I realized, before he got to me, that I don't wanna die. I want to live."

Hershel pulled her tight to his chest, squeezing hard enough that it almost hurt. She understood, though, and held him back, just as tight. Maggie'd been right, of course, but it was still important that she'd told him herself. "I want to _live_," she murmured into his chest.

"Good," he said, voice cracking. "Good."

They stayed there for a moment, wrapped in a tight embrace, until Hershel pulled away. "This man that saved you, how did he see you?"

Beth made a face; she'd hoped to avoid this particular revelation, but it seemed impossible to lie to Hershel at this point in the conversation. She wouldn't offer more than she had to, but she -- she'd come so close to leaving him forever. He deserved answers. "He was planning on the robbing the house," she said.

Hershel went stiff.

"Daddy, I know how it sounds, but he saw me walk away and he _followed_, he knew something was wrong, and he coulda taken advantage, coulda robbed the house anyway, coulda let me hang, or -- or hurt me himself." She stared up at Hershel, eyes wide and beseeching, begging him to understand what she was saying. "He's not bad. He's just hungry. And he can work."

"You want me to hire the man who nearly robbed us?" Hershel asked, aghast.

"_No_," Beth said. "I want you to hire the man that saved my life."

Hershel sighed. "Bethy, I'm grateful to him for that, but we don't owe him. Any decent man would have done the same."

"No other decent men were there," she said. "And hiring a decent man is never a bad decision."

"I'll _think_ about it," Hershel said, and Beth rolled her eyes.

"That means _no_, but you're too much of a coward to say it."

"Fine," he said. "No."

"Daddy," she said, marshaling all of her years of being his favorite and aimed all of her bullheaded determination, passed down from her mother, straight at his weakest point. "That man is the only reason I'm here in front of you, and if you don't owe him, I do. You taught me never to let a debt go unpaid. Now, I thought the best way, for _everyone_, would be to give him a job, but if you're not willing, I will figure something else out, and you will like it even less."

"You tell me you tried to kill yourself, and now you threaten me with something I'll like less," Hershel said, almost amused, almost despondent. "How did I raise such a hellion?"

Beth smiled -- beamed, really, knowing it for the capitulation it was. "I don't know, maybe it was marrying one that did it."

Hershel traced the line of her jaw, then the scratches. "Let me clean these up for you before you go offer the man that gave them to you a job."

"Okay, Daddy," she said, and stood and pressed a kiss to his cheek, rough with the night's bristle. 

His hands were gentle, but the rubbing alcohol wasn't, and Beth fussed and twitched under his ministrations, almost unbelieving that just yesterday she been ready to hurt herself so bad. When he was done, Hershel taped a cotton square over the scratches -- so he didn't have to look at them, he told her when she questioned covering something that wasn't bleeding.

Her neck had come up in bruises, too, but they were a sick yellow, and hard to see from a distance.

None of it bothered Beth, who saw both scratches and bruises as a sign only that she was still alive to come up in bruises and scabs .

When Hershel was done, and Beth dressed in her blue housedress, Hershel went looking for Maggie, Beth trailing eagerly after.

He found her in the barn, checking over Nelly. Beth stuck her tongue out, insulted that Maggie thought she wouldn't take care of her horse after their late night adventure, though she had to admit she understood. 

"Get the wagon ready, Maggie," Hershel said. "You and Beth are going to town. We need new help; Otis and I are struggling. Two should be enough, and we can pay in food and board, and a dollar a week, to pay out at the end of the season."

Maggie glanced between Beth and Hershel, eyes lingering on Beth's neck and the cotton square covering it, obviously biting back her questions. "Alright," she said. "Need anything else while we're there? I went shopping just the other day."

Hershel glanced at Beth's neck. "Make a stop at the pharmacy," he said, passing her a note Beth hadn't seen him write. "Pick up everything on that."

Beth bit her tongue, though she certainly had something to say. All told, both her daddy and Maggie had taken the news better than she'd feared, and she wasn't going to make them rethink that.

Instead, she helped Maggie get the horses hitched and waved goodbye to Hershel and Patricia as Maggie clucked and sent the horses to their steady pace. Otis was finishing the morning milking, but Beth was certain that by the time she returned, he and Patricia would be well up to date on what she had done.

It was stifling, but she took solace in what they _didn't_ know, flexing her hand and staring at it, imagining she could see the shadow of fur beneath her skin. She was going to find Daryl and bring him home and he was going to teach her how to be free.

"That secret didn't last long," Maggie said.

"It was still important for me to be the one to tell him," Beth said, not really wanting to argue but certain of her position.

Maggie slid a glance at her and, in a rare move for her, let it go. "It'll be good to have some more help. It's been hard getting all the cows milked."

Beth, who hadn't been helping with the milking since their mother died, shifted on her seat. "I'll be helping out now, too," she said, before remembering what Daryl had said. She would make animals nervous now.

That would be a loss, though, she frowned at the calmly moving rumps of the horses before them, she wasn't sure he'd been telling the truth. Or maybe he had been telling _his_ truth, but it wasn't his werewolfiness that made animals dislike him. He was a bit of a grump, and animals could sense that. Probably she would be fine.

And if she wasn't... well, she would worry about it when it happened.

When they made it to town, Maggie tied up in front of the General Store and headed in. Beth waited in the wagon, looking around for Daryl. Instead, she saw the Sheriff, Rick Grimes, looking natty in his uniform, wide-brimmed hat dropping a heavy shadow on his face in the bright light of the early morning.

"Morning, Beth," he said, coming up to the wagon and tilting his hat up so she could see his face. "It's been a while. You feeling better? How's your family?"

"I'm much better, Mr. Grimes, thank you," she said, smiling. She liked Rick, for all that she didn't get to see him in good circumstances often. He'd always been good to her family. "And Daddy's well. Maggie's with me, but I ain't heard any shouting, so I assume she's still doing well, too. How's Lori and Carl?"

"How many times I gotta tell you to call me Rick?" he asked and Beth smiled.

"One more time at least, Mr. Grimes."

He laughed. "Fair's fair, Miss Greene. And Lori's good," he said. "Carl's going through some growing pains, but that's to be expected. He hasn't told me he hates me in a day or two, and I'm counting that a victory."

"He's twelve now, right?" she asked, not certain if he'd had a birthday while she'd been abed. 

"Not for another month," Rick said, "but he's acting all of thirteen. Wants to join the CCC, of all the foolish things. How's the cows?"

"Still mooing," Beth said. "Having to dump some of the milk is hard, but so far we haven't had to sell or cull, so doing just fine. Are you doing alright?" The CCC had done a few projects around Senoia, though Beth hadn't been out to see them, and she knew the men who took those jobs, had gone to school with many of them. She hadn't thought Carl likely to be one of them.

"As well as anyone," Rick said. "The department had to cut a couple officers, but I'm safe, and not just because I'm an elected official." Beth laughed politely, even though it wasn't a very funny joke. "There's rumors a witchhunter's coming down the coast, has some of the neighbors all stirred up, but there's no reason to think he'll come here. That's what's been taking up most of the department's time, sides from some theft."

"A witchhunter?" Beth asked. She'd never seen one in real life before, had only heard about their swift justice. "You think we got witches around here?"

"If we do, they're not causing trouble," Rick said, "and so's I don't much care. You been feeling bewitched, Miss Greene?" he teased.

Bewitched, no. But witchhunters were known to take issue with any of the paranormal. "I think the Scotts have a ghost, but I think they like her," she offered. "But I'm getting sidetracked -- we're actually here to hire today -- know anyone you might recommend?"

"Just so happens, I do," Rick said. "Glenn Rhee, just in from the city. Seen him around any?"

Beth shifted, not wanting to admit she hadn't left the house since the funeral. "Don't think so."

"Well, he's a good, reliable man, but money's tight in the department, even down two officers and I can't pay him what he's worth. Hasn't got any milking experience, but he's a fast learner and a good hand at everything he sets his mind to. I can find him and send him by, if you'd like."

"That would be wonderful, Mr. Grimes," Beth said, and saw Maggie emerging from the store, alone. "Here's Maggie now. We sure would appreciate you sending Mr. Rhee by, and we'll be in town for a while, looking, if you've got time today. If you don't, you haven't been by to dinner in a minute."

"Well, I never say no to -- Patricia's cooking," he said with barely a hesitation. Beth smiled at him for the quick recovery, though there was a quick stab of pain. Annette's cooking had been nothing special, especially next to her baking, but the reminder that she was gone was still a splinter in the smooth wood of the day.

"Mr. Grimes," Maggie said. "My baby sister been giving you trouble? You can go ahead and lock her up if you need to, I won't try and stop you."

"Good morning, Maggie," Rick said, grinning. "Beth tells me you're looking for help. Any luck?"

"Not a bit," Maggie said. "I'm always surprised how hard it is to find men who want to wake up at four and go milking."

"Well, at least when you start that early it's not hot yet," Rick offered.

"Can't convince them of that," Maggie sighed.

"Well, I told Beth already, but I got a man for you. I'll send him by 'fore you head out of town. Don't make yourself hard to find!"

"Never do," Maggie said. "Nice seeing you, Mr. Grimes."

"And you, girls." He waved as he headed off and Maggie propped her elbow on the wagon by Beth's knee.

"You gonna sit there all day, lazy bones?"

"There was no one?" Beth asked, suddenly sure she should have gone in. Maybe was Daryl in there, and he just made a bad impression, as he was pretty much a bad impression in a man's body. It was silly of her to sit outside, hoping the wind would carry her scent to him, or whatever silly thing she'd been thinking.

"No one under sixty," Maggie said, "and they've all got houses of their own, aren't looking for board."

"What about the bar?" Beth asked. "We could check there?"

"It's nine in the morning," Maggie said. "Anyone in there, we don't want."

"Come on, Maggie," Beth wheedled. "Unemployment could drive a saint to drink."

"Fine, but only so I can say I told you so."

"I'll take it," Beth said loftily, jumping down from the wagon.

She led the way, Maggie only a step behind, and found the bar empty. It wasn't a surprise -- as Maggie had said, it was nine in the morning -- but it did perplex her. Where could Daryl be? It weren't a large town, especially for a man as didn't much like people. The bar-owner looked up at them from where he was mopping.

"Help you ladies?" he asked and Beth strode over, weaving around the crowded tables and their bristling branches of upended chair legs.

"Morning!" she said. "We're looking to hire hands for the farm, was wondering if you had any men to recommend?"

The man paused in his mopping to think. "Well," he said, "unless you need a good drinker, I don't think I've got any names for you."

"That's too bad," Maggie said, looking archly at Beth, "but thank you so much for your time."

Beth pasted a smile on her face and let Maggie lead her out.

"I told you so," Maggie said, with a great deal of relish. "Now, I'm gonna ask around with the _neighbors_, who'll have _much_ better recommendations, and then we can head on home."

But Beth wasn't listening. She was staring wide-eyed at Daryl, a few feet away. His eyes slid from her to the building she'd come out of and his lip curled.

She could _smell_ him, in a way she couldn't anybody else. He smelled like rank dog, blood, dirt, musty and musky and honestly kind of disgusting, but she still wanted to bury her nose in him and _inhale_.

And he was coming over, the smell getting stronger as he did. "That's where you thought to look for me?" he snarled. "Prissy little bitch, a man can't make a good impression saving your god_damn_ life, what kinda stick you got up your ass?"

Maggie didn't wait for Beth to shout back, just planted herself firmly between them. "You're gonna keep moving," she said, even as still water.

"Like hell," he said, "I got business to settle with this dumb bitch."

Maggie had a gun out and leveled at him in a second. Beth hadn't even known she'd _brought_ a gun. "You call my sister a bitch one more time, you're gonna be breathing out a new hole."

"_Maggie_," Beth said, pulling out from behind her and forcing the gun down. "Meet Daryl Dixon, the man who saved my life."

"You'll excuse me if I don't believe that," Maggie said, "seein's as he's acting more like he wants to _take_ it."

Daryl reared back as if struck. "You think I'd hit a girl?" he spat.

Maggie just raised her eyebrows and Beth huffed, planted herself more firmly between them. "Daryl, we was just _looking_ and maybe I wanted a drink, and it had nothing to do with you. Ever think of that?"

"So first you think I'm a drunk, and then you think I'm stupid," he said.

"No, I think you're being _mean_," she said, loudly, over Maggie's quick "_sure do._" She tried to stomp on Maggie's foot backwards, but missed, and continued. "_And_ I think that you think if you can offend me, you're getting out of our deal, and it's just not gonna work, Mr. Dixon."

His face tucked into an incredulous grimace, but Beth was done arguing. "Now, if you're done being rude, our wagon is this way."

"Excuse me?" Maggie said. "We're not hiring this man."

"We _are_, he saved my life and I owe him," Beth said, cutting off, _and I need him to teach me_. "Daddy knows."

"Does Daddy know how he _talks_ to you?"

"He won't do it again," Beth said, sliding a warning look at Daryl. "_Will_ you, Mr. Dixon?"

Daryl looked about to cut his losses, but then his nostrils flared and he took a step towards her. That was her first sign -- the second was that light suddenly smeared up and down her vision, like her eyes were trying restructure from the inside out. Then the pain hit, every muscle seizing at once, tight as a clamp. Before she could fall, Daryl had caught her around the waist and shoulders, easing her to the ground and holding her head steady as she jerked and twitched, muscles roiling and twisting under her skin. One arm shot out in front of her and she could see, the colors gone queer and pale, that her fingers looked short and twisted, clawed.

Daryl held her until she stopped seizing and jerking, and she blinked up at Maggie, pale as paper.

"Beth..." Maggie started, but Daryl cut her off.

"Don't ask her anything yet, let her catch her breath first. Damn."

Maggie's mouth twisted. "Fine. Help me get her to the wagon, I'm taking her home."

Beth grabbed Maggie's wrist, squeezing as tight as she could, and Maggie rolled her eyes. "_Fine_, you little brat. And you have the job, if you want it. Hope you're good with cows."

If she'd had the energy, she would have giggled at his face. As it was, this abortive Change had taken more out of her than the first, and Beth contented herself with leaning her head against Daryl's chest as he carried her back to the wagon. His heart beat, solid and steady, and she smiled to herself. "Knew you were a big softy," she whispered, just for him to hear, and he growled, but nothing else.

Waiting at the wagon for them was a young man, lean and pretty. "Miss Greene?" he said, eyes darting between Maggie and Beth in Daryl's arms. "Rick -- the Sheriff sent me? Said you were looking for help? Is this a bad time?"

"Good as any," Maggie said, snappish with nerves. "You're hired, 'less you screw it up. You coming?"

"Uh," he said, "yes? Okay. I'm Glenn? Glenn Rhee?"

"I figured," Maggie said, looking him up and down. "Now, Glenn Rhee, I want to get my sister home quick, so I'd _appreciate_ it if you asked any questions on the ride."

Beth hid her laughter in Daryl's chest. She was fine, really, just a little tired, but she was also annoyed with both Maggie and Daryl and was perfectly content to let them fuss. It was just Glenn's bad luck to be getting the sharp side of Maggie's tongue.

"Okay," Glenn said, still sounding nervous. But he was swinging up to sit next to Maggie in the driver's seat, while Daryl set Beth in the back and crawled in beside her. 

"Y'alright?" he asked gruffly, taking her wrist and checking her pulse without looking at her.

Beth smiled at his lowered head, the closest she was going to get to an apology. "Not getting rid of me that easily, Mr. Dixon," she said quietly.

He darted a look at her, almost unreadable, blue eyes hidden behind a fall of dirty hair. He looked half-wolf even when he wasn't. Beth could only hope she would do the same, someday.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Wolf Like Me, TV on the Radio
> 
> When I tried to copy this to bring it over here I accidentally pasted something else over it, so, uh, enjoy the panic flavor in this update!

Daryl was not, he quickly discovered, any good with cows. He had known he wouldn't be, but it was difficult to argue with Beth, who only accused him of backing out of their deal, and, when he didn't seem likely to bend on that argument, went into yet another abortive Change. If he hadn't seen the fear in her eyes as she jerked and twitched, muscles pulling into new forms, bones trying to shift and lock, he would have thought she did it on purpose. As it was, he still wasn't convinced, but he was getting the tour anyway, led by her father.

Hershel led Daryl and Glenn through the fields, to the milking barn, telling them how the hours -- too damn early, in Daryl's opinion -- and what to do with the milk. The information was easy enough. Daryl wasn't stupid, no matter how he looked. It was the learning how to milk that was giving him trouble.

Beth had been hustled inside by her boyish sister as soon as they arrived, so he had no familiar faces to lean on as Hershel sat him on a stool next to a cow. She was massive -- he'd known cows were big, but he'd never spent a lot of time up close and personal with a living one, and he wasn't eager to do it twice a day, every day, for as long as Beth needed him. The cow was nervous, side-stepping and swishing her tail, and when he tried to go for her udder, Hershel watching over his shoulder, hardly encouraging him, she got even more nervous, swinging her bulk into him and knocking him off the stool, eyes rolling wildly. 

"Whoa, girl," Glenn said, trying to hold her in position and getting flung like the stick he was, while Hershel stared disapprovingly.

Daryl wanted to run, or bite if he couldn't, but he'd made Beth a promise, and the humiliation of being defeated by a cow was too much to be borne, so he took a deep breath and calmed himself down, holding it until he could feel the hair pressing at the inside of his skin relax and melt back. "'s okay," he said, stroking a nervous hand down the cow's flank.

He hadn't been good with animals since the Change took him. It had been a great loss, though he tried not to think of it that way -- the Change had taken so much from him that to list animals among them almost cheapened it. He shouldn't have _cared_ that dogs tucked their tails and cringed, that cats hissed and arched their backs, that horses spooked and sidled. He should have taken it as a mark of pride, the way his father did, the way his brother did, he was such a fucking badass that animals knew it... but he couldn't. 

He'd tried a few times, mostly with dogs, and it had never ended well. But this mattered, this wasn't a whim or a wish, this was a promise he'd made to someone whose life he had ruined. So he breathed deep, tried to make himself non-threatening, came as close as he could to crawling on his belly without getting down in the muck of the milking barn.

And the cow -- she didn't warm to him, still rolled a wet brown eye until the white showed, but she settled some, let him get his hands on her. He slid his hand down the coarse fur of her flank, settled at her udder, circled the rubbery nipple and squeezed. A hot jet of milk squirted out, landing so loud in the metal pail that he near jumped.

"Good," Hershel said, clapping his shoulder. "They can be nervous with new people, but you calmed her down. Now fill the bucket. Glenn, tie the rope to the beam, there, and we'll get you a cow of your own."

The process, working his fingers down each nipple, tugging just enough, was almost soothing. It took a damn long time, and it made his fingers ache, but it was... nice, touching an animal that still lived and breathed, that he wasn't in the process of killing. 

He was on his third cow when Beth came out with a pail of water. "Hey, Daddy," she said, kissing Hershel on the cheek where he sat on his own stool, milking his own cow. "How're they doing?"

"Well enough," Hershel said, glancing over Glenn and lingering on Daryl. "Slow, but they'll get there."

"I thought y'all might be thirsty? It's a hot day, even in here."

Especially in here, Daryl thought, trapped with the heat of the cows and their gas. 

"That's sweet'a you, honey," Hershel said, using the tin cup and drinking deeply himself. "You feeling better?"

"Oh yes," she said, though she stunk of sweat and her eyes were glassy. Had she gone through another partial Change without him? Daryl squeezed too hard and the cow lo'd discontentedly, one foot stamping hard, just missing his foot.

Then she was by him, offering him a drink of water. "How's it going?" she asked, eyes fever bright, so blue he couldn't believe them.

"What're you doing up?" he hissed. "Y'look about to keel over."

"I'm _fine_," she said, "and I _don't_ need any more fussing. Maggie already darn near fussed me to death."

"Language, Miz Greene," Daryl said, only realizing once it was out that he was teasing her. Something about being on the farm was making him lose his mind. It was the only explanation. "_You_ should be abed, and I shouldn't be here," he recovered, taking refuge in anger.

She rolled her eyes at him, and a spike of anger hit him in the head. Then the cow kicked him, catching him square in the gut and sending him flying, which didn't help. He rolled to his feet straight into a crouch, arms up to protect him from the next blow, but none came.

Beth had dropped the water and it was spreading in a dark puddle on the dusty floor of the barn. She had the cow by the lead rope, chastising her in unending stream of mild invective.

Daryl watched for a moment, the way she leaned against the cow's shoulder, looking totally at home, though she still wore the marks of his unkind altruism bright and raw on her neck, the way Hershel had half risen from his seat, then returned when he saw Beth managing it, the way Glenn stared wide-eyed, hands slack on the udder of the cow before him. Daryl looked at all of that, the barn full of cows waiting to be milked, the girl who had dragged him into it, her cornsilk hair spilling out of the loose braid it had started the day in, her face almost glowing in the afternoon light falling in thick shafts through the open doors and windows of the barn. He looked at it, and he walked out, blood pulsing in his ears.

From the milking barn, he could see the house, some kind of storybook gingerbread home, the kind of house he hadn't thought really existed, the house he was supposed to be sleeping in tonight. 

He started to run, Changing as he did, until he was on all fours, clothes tattered and abandoned behind him, loping into the woods. He ran and ran until he didn't know where he was, until he could breathe again. And then he collapsed on his side in the shade of the trees, panting.

Slowly he became aware that he'd just fucked himself, that he'd gotten nothing from his trip into town and lost his clothes and peace of mind. But the relief was such that he couldn't even regret it. He was free. He was gone. He would never have to see his mistake again.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there, catching his breath, before he caught Beth's scent. She wasn't close, but she was following him, surprisingly well, given that the wind was in his favor. He stayed wolf and padded to meet her, intending to scare her off once and for all. If the fangs didn't terrify her, the scars would; they stood out more in wolf form than human, great bare channels through the thick coat of fur. If he was lucky, she would think he had gotten them through fights with other wolves.

When he found her, he emerged from the shadows of the trees with a low growl, calculated menace meant to make her turn tail. Instead, she lifted her chin -- as a human he would have read it as pride. As a wolf, all he could see was her pulse point, how close his claws had come to it. She was vulnerable and she didn't even know it.

"You're not getting out of talking, just 'cause you don't got lips," she said. "I brought your clothes. Well, I brought clothes, they're Daddy's, yours are a bit... ripped. So you can turn back and we can have a conversation, or you can stay like that and I can talk atcha."

He growled again, in case she hadn't heard him the first time.

"That don't count as conversation," she said. "Alright, grump, have it your way. Good news first: you're not fired, and boy did that take some talking on my part. Our secret _is_ out, so, uh, that's for the best, I think. I didn't really like lying to my daddy. And he's willing to be more understanding about the animals, in light'a your _condition_, so that's good."

She stared expectantly at him, but all he could think was how strange she looked out here, pretty in blue and delicate as a doll, moving with more confidence than he'd ever had in his life. _Incongruous_. He sat on his haunches, wrapped his tail around his feet, didn't turn back but didn't run, neither.

"So, the bad news. Maggie's probably gonna try and fight you. It's not cause you're a wolf or nothing, it's 'cause you turned me and she can't fight me while I'm still sick, so she's gonna get her licks where she can. You can't hurt her or let her hurt you, I don't really know which to be more worried about." She tossed the clothes towards him. "You ready to come back now? Daddy won't make you do anymore milking today and not just 'cause we finished without you."

The fight went out of him. She wanted him to change back for the walk back to the farmhouse, so he did, staying where he was, watching her watch him, hoping that his twisting muscles and snapping bones disgusted her. She didn't look away even when he was done, kneeling on the ground exhausted and trembling and naked.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, tremulous, as he dragged the clothes to his lap and pulled the shirt over his head.

He'd already told her it didn't, knew that for her it did, didn't know the right answer, didn't know what to tell her, so he just grunted, let her take what meaning she needed from it. When he stood to pull on the pants, her eyes flickered over the length of his legs and then she seemed to realize what she was doing, cheeks going scarlet and whirling to put her back to him. 

"Sorry!" she said.

He hadn't liked her staring, but on a scale of thing he hadn't liked, it was so low as not to rate. "'s fine," he said, working the words out around a mouth that felt like it was still filled with the wrong set of teeth.

"It was rude of me," she said, self-censoriously. "It's _not_ fine."

He grunted, unsure what she wanted him to do. "Let's go," he said.

She hadn't brought him shoes, but his feet were tough and the leaf litter was soft. She glanced nervously at his bare toes as they walked. "Sorry I forgot shoes," she said. "I was kinda in a hurry to get after you."

He said nothing, just kept her in the corner of his eye so it wasn't obvious he was watching her. At every turn she'd surprised him, so it seemed the best way to manage her was just to be ready for anything.

She kept up an easy chatter for the whole long walk back to the farm, retracing their steps with ease. She was good in the woods. He wondered if that had been true before, too. Luckily, she didn't seem to require much from him in the way of conversation. She'd taken her victory with good grace, and was allowing him some final dignity by pretending he hadn't run like a scared puppy from a little hard work.

Before they reached the farm, though, everything that had driven him from the barn in the first place rose back up and he grabbed her arm. She stopped mid-sentence, mid-stride, and looked up at him, blue eyes wide.

"'M not a farmer," he said.

"Well, not _yet,_" she said, patting his hand gently.

"It's a stupid plan," he continued dourly. "You think it'll work, you're fooling yourself."

"You don't get it," she said, half-fond, half-exasperated. "You don't need to be a farmer. You need to be _around_. This is just the only way I could think of. You've got a better idea, we can with that."

He could linger in the woods, living as a wolf. He could leave her to figure it out on her own. But when it came down to it, no, he didn't have any better ideas. So he released her arm and followed her back onto the farm.

It had crept from afternoon to evening while he had been running, the late spring light still bright but softened by the low angle of the sun. Beth led him straight into the house, pulling him into the kitchen and directing him to wash his hands. She leaned against the counter while he did, quiet for a moment. He snuck looks at her, scenting when he was certain she wouldn't notice. Another Change was coming; he could feel the heat coming off of her from here, could see the tremor in her muscles. She was pale, save for high spots of color on her cheeks and the vivid red marks on her neck. 

"Should get some rest," he muttered, drying his hands on a pretty hand towel, embroidered with flowers and birds.

"I'm not tired," she said, though she had to blink a few times before she could focus on him. "'Sides, I think Maggie's sweet on Glenn and I want to see if she flirts the way she fights."

He didn't believe her, but Daryl had already bitten the hand that fed him once today. He was doing his best not to make it twice. He stood in front of her awkwardly for a moment while she swayed. When she grabbed him, sharp nails pressed into his wrist, too pointed to be human. "Don't run away," she said.

Daryl just grunted, but he stayed where she put him.

Dinner went better than he'd expected. No one mentioned that he'd run, and Beth had been right, Maggie and Glenn seemed focused on each other, and Hershel, after a long look at Daryl, left him alone. The others, Otis and Patricia, took their lead from Hershel. So Daryl could focus instead on eating and on Beth. 

The food was the best he'd ever had. Beth looked half-absent, and she jerked occasionally, muscles moving on their own.

She excused herself early and Daryl would have followed her except for Hershel's eyes on him, so he just stared after her, as if his thoughts could keep her from hitting her head, as if his gaze could sooth her fear.

The family slept upstairs, the help downstairs. He'd been shown his room when they first arrived at the house -- his _own_ room, not shared with anyone else, with a sound ceiling and strong walls, furnished with a bed and side table. He'd never slept anyplace so fine, it made him feel queer to sit on the bed, stare at the walls, decorated as they were with pastorals and bits of embroidery, all with that sloppy homemade edge that had him looking for the creator's names. Sure enough, each was signed _Maggie_, or _Beth._

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the sampler across from him, until there was no more noise of people moving around the house. Everyone went to bed early, as he'd been warned that the morning milking started at 4am. When it was silent -- no sounds of Beth seizing upstairs, alone, no sounds of Hershel getting his shotgun -- Daryl went out to the front porch. He wasn't running, he just needed the fresh air.

He didn't find it. 

Oh, the air itself was fresh and crisp, the spring still new enough that the night grew cool and comforting. But the scent carried along it was rank and familiar.

Heart sinking, Daryl went out to meet his brother.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....this chapter got away from me a little bit.
> 
> Recommended listening: Dirty Paws, Of Monsters and Men. You Are the Wilderness, Voxhaul Broadcast. In a Week, Hozier & Karen Cowley.

Beth found Daryl on the porch in the morning after the milking. She hadn't helped, as she hadn't for months, because no matter that she was feeling better than she had been, she was not in the habit of waking up early at this point. She would get there... but probably not this week. She woke feeling _awful_, feverish and itchy and trapped, her muscles jerking and rippling and moving entirely without her permission, and she lay in bed for an hour trying to flex the Change out, or bring it on. Whatever it took to finish this terrible waiting. 

Nothing worked, and eventually she dragged herself downstairs, still in her nightgown, wrapped in a housecoat, arms folded around her middle, as if by doing that she could hold her muscles in place. She wasn't hungry, found the mere idea of eating nauseating beyond belief, and so went right out onto the porch, needing to smell something that wasn't her own stale sweat.

She walked into Daryl, who sat on the railing, leaning against the pole, one foot up on the rail so he could brace his elbow on his knee, other foot dangling in the air. It was an almost boyish pose, but he was drinking a mug of black coffee so strong the smell made Beth's eyes water and nose itch. And his face was anything but boyish. There were deep circles carved under his eyes, so she suspected he hadn't slept the night before, and there was a deep line drawn between his eyebrows. He looked not angry but focused. Hershel had looked much the same when he'd gotten the news of the banks failing; it was the sort of look that said that everything was going wrong, and the wearer would see exactly how much of their world they could hold together through force of will.

He took a moment to turn to her when she came out, he was so focused on the world beyond the farm. But when he did turn, he jumped down immediately, leaving his coffee on the railing. He pressed a hand to her forehead, overfamiliar, but Beth did nothing to dissuade it, melting into his cool touch.

"'s coming," he said, eyes flicking up and down her and the way her bicep rolled and twitched under the skin. "Get any sleep?"

She had; it had been uneven and wracked by nightmares where she suffocated in her own skin as she shed it, but she had slept. "Yeah," she said, pressing into the back of his hand as if she could steal some of his strength of will for herself. It felt like the sort of day where will would be the only thing holding her together, and hers seemed not quite up to the task.

"Should stay in the house," he said, dropping his hand, eyes flicking from her to the yard and fields and forest.

Beth drew back, hugging herself tighter. If she stayed inside she would go mad once more, for good this time. "Are you crazy?" she said. "A wolf don't belong indoors."

"And a sick girl don't belong out of 'em," he said, almost snarling it. He seemed to realize that he should treat her gently halfway through the sentence, biting back on his own natural meanness. "Should let your sister take care of you."

Beth laughed without humor. "You ain't seen Maggie's bedside manner."

"Better'n mine," he said, and she looked up at him through her eyelashes, not sure she agreed. Sure he was a rude old coot, but she remembered how he'd held her through the first abortive Changes. Under all that reflexive anger, Beth was pretty sure he was a good sort. 

"I don't want to be inside," she said instead of arguing. Her stomach rolled. Her leg jerked and kicked on its own. She wanted -- to run, maybe, though running felt entirely without her capabilities at the moment. Maybe a good stumble was more her speed. 

"Should eat," he said. "Changing on an empty stomach... it's hard."

She made a face and walked down the steps, only realizing she was barefoot when she reached the grass. She wriggled her toes in the grass, imagining her feet as paws, imagining herself free. She was about to drop her housecoat and start to run as best she could when Daryl grabbed her arm, hard, fingers digging deep into the meat of her bicep.

"What?" she asked -- well, snapped, if she was being honest, and he reluctantly withdrew his hand.

"Not safe out there," he muttered.

Beth thought about telling him that she'd learned how to ride on this land, learned how to run and swim, had spent every summer racing through the fields, had mapped every inch of their land with her own feet. The idea was exhausting. Instead she stared at him pointedly until he ducked his head, seeming to understand that he'd overstepped. Then she began to walk, heading straight out from the house, aiming first for the cow fields and then breaking into a lurching, painful run, zig-zagging whichever way the wind blew.

She knew she looked mad, but if she didn't run, she would _be_ mad, choking on dust and strangled by her own rebelling body. She ran in great uneven circles wavering their way out from the farmhouse until she was nearing the woods and her lungs were burning. It was when she first stepped foot past the shade of the trees that she finally heard through the beating of blood in her ears.

"_Beth._" Maggie's voice was like a whip crack, a well-practiced lash Beth was certain she'd repeated several times.

Beth stared at her through a fall of tangled hair, shivering in her sweaty nightgown, the sudden halt throwing her from spring to winter. Her body, which had been hers so beautifully as she ran, suddenly belonged once more to _someone else_. Not Maggie, necessarily; Maggie was merely the mouthpiece.

"Why don't you come back to the house now, Beth?" Maggie said. Beth looked at her, then over her shoulder, searching for the dark shape she knew she would find. She could _smell_ him. 

And there he was, distant enough to pretend he hadn't sent Maggie after her, but staring too intently for plausible deniability. "What if I don't?" Beth asked, though she knew she would. Maybe after her first Change she would be brave enough, but not now. Not while she was still the same old Beth Greene, who had done as she was told for too long to shrug it off easily.

"I'll hog-tie you and toss you over my shoulder," Maggie said, crossing her arms. Beth stared her down for a moment, not sure if she was pretending to consider, or actually considering it, but after another long moment, she folded.

"Fine," she said, sighing explosively. "_Fine_. I'll come in."

"And wash up and have breakfast," Maggie said.

Beth rolled her eyes, which was safer than saying, _don't push your luck_, and more satisfying than doing nothing. 

Maggie didn't frogmarch her back to the farmhouse, but it was close, walking so close their arms bumped, the toe of her boot clipping Beth's heels more than once. Though she was unbound, Beth felt suffocated, an iron band of tension around her ribs. Every step closer to the house drew the band tighter and tighter, and it only got worse when she drew close enough to Daryl that his smell -- still heavy with sweat and wolfy musk but cut now by the earthy scent of cows and fresh milk -- rose up to choke her. 

Desperate, almost panting, Beth whirled. "Don't make me sit in the house all day," she begged.

Maggie hesitated for a moment, then hardened herself. "You're real sick, Bethy," she said, "you gotta stay somewhere safe, where we can keep an eye on you."

"I'm not _sick_," Beth said, but she let Maggie turn her towards the house once more. "I'm just _changing_."

"Into a god_damn_ wolf," Maggie muttered. "Not exactly the usual sorta thing."

"Don't _swear_," Beth chided. "And it's not like it's -- I mean, we've had werewolves around before, haven't we?"

"Not in years," Maggie said, ignoring the first part. "Oh, not since you were really little, I don't think, and they came and left awful quick."

"You're not _that_ much older than me," Beth muttered, but they were to the porch and the fight had gone out of her. Maggie pushed her gently up the stairs and through the door.

Beth cast a lingering look around the grounds of the farm; the sky a blue as delicate as a spider's web, the trees reaching up into it like great grasping hands. Beth wanted to grasp, wanted to reach into something delicate and tear it apart. 

Instead, Maggie gave her another gentle push on the shoulder. "Go clean up. I'll make you something to eat."

When she was a little girl, Beth had thought the farmhouse was the best place on God's green earth. It had been built by her great-great-grandaddy, with the expectation that the Greenes would be fruitful and multiply. Growing up, she and Maggie and Shawn had played on the stairs, in the rooms, in the small, hidden crawlspaces. They'd created a secret room behind the hidden door in the back of the attic closet, filled it with tea candles and beautiful things -- smooth white stones from the beach after their single visit, before the stock markets had sounded the death knell for travel. Dried flowers and leaves that they'd pressed between the pages of books, then tacked to the wall. Glass bottles with interesting labels collected when Hershel had emptied them in the clinic. Some streamers left over from a party Annette had hosted, where the whole house had come alive with light and motion, bodies spilling out across the lawn, whooping with joy, a chatter so lively Maggie had wanted to keep it forever and always with the Greene siblings. And the floor covered with cushions, padded with blankets, so they could lay out together, close enough to feel each other's breath, arms and legs twined, talking quietly of their dreams. Shawn had wanted to learn medicine like their father. Maggie had wanted to travel, to see the world. And Beth had only ever wanted to stay where she was, surrounded by love so solid and reassuring it could have been just another piece of lumber.

Beth had never wanted to leave the farmhouse. She'd been born in the master bedroom, had assumed she would be married on the stairs, would die in the sickroom by the kitchen. 

For the first time in her life, she hated it.

The walls seemed close and crooked, the rough patches on the floor tripped her as she dragged her feet to the bathroom. The door, which had always seemed so welcoming, closed tight behind her, the sound of Maggie throwing the bolt loud enough to ring in her ears. 

Defeated, Beth trudged upstairs, heading straight for the bathroom. She ran the water in the tub as hot as she could stand and waited for it to fill. She wanted to sink below the water, wanted to let it take her away from this place. When the tub was full, and she'd twisted the water off, she pulled off her nightgown, still damp with sweat, and dropped it, climbing into the bath and lowering herself into the steaming water.

It was so hot a flush rose to her skin immediately, hot enough that she hesitated with her chin at the top of the lapping water. Then she took a deep breath and plunged herself under.

It helped; under the water she couldn't _smell -- _not the cow-stink, not the crushed grass, not the strange, smokey, almost rancid scent she'd caught, just briefly, at the edge of the woods.And her muscles, still twitching, started to calm in the all-encompassing heat. But it didn't help enough. She was still vividly aware that the water was held by a tub, that the tub was within a room, that the room was within the house, that within and without the house were people intent on her staying where she was, as she was. 

She let out her breath in a scream, felt the bubbles burst around her face.

\--

Once she was dressed, wearing a flowered dress Annette had made her from flour sacks, a pun that had always amused her, but today seemed insipid and boring, and had eaten enough to satisfy Maggie, Beth was allowed out on the porch. 

Daryl was working in the barn, doors open, though she couldn't tell what he was doing, 'sides keeping a wary eye on her. She sipped her sweet tea and stared at him, as if an intent enough look would shame him into taking back whatever he'd told Maggie.

Hershel was out on a house-call, the first he'd made in quite a while, and Beth wanted to be happy for him, that he was going back to the work he'd always loved more than the day-to-day of farming, but instead she was sullenly, selfishly furious. It had always been easier to appeal to Hershel than to Maggie.

So she wandered the confines of the porch until that smell from the woods rose up with the wind. Beth lifted her head, cautiously scenting the air, though she was self-conscious about it. When she rounded the corner, she realized she needn't have scented at all; the source of the smell was striding towards the house all out in the open.

It was a man, bigger than most, hair shaved close to his head. At this distance, she couldn't tell much else about him, 'sides that he was white and sloppily dressed and smelled like -- she sniffed again -- old blood and piss. Her lip curled with distaste, and she called back into the house, "Maggie, we got company," trying to keep her tone light but not sure she succeeded.

Maggie came out, drying her hands on a dishtowel just as Daryl came out of the barn at a run, heading straight for the stranger.

"Think they know each other?" Maggie asked, glancing back inside as if she was checking that the shotgun still rested by the door.

Beth watched as Daryl slowed to a jog, then grabbed the stranger's arm, tried to turn him back around. 

The stranger slipped his grip with ease, and pulled Daryl into a headlock. Maggie took a step back towards the house, but if the man was a threat, it wasn't for his grip on Daryl; he scuffed Daryl's hair, grinning wide, and then shoved him towards the house.

Even from here they could hear what he said next, "Well, go on Darylina, introduce me to these fine folks!"

What Daryl said was hidden by the distance, but he turned his back to the house, planted himself between them, hands on hips. The stranger walked straight past him, and Daryl seemed to wilt, or draw in somehow. It made Beth sad, to see it.

The rest of the way to the farmhouse, Daryl trudged behind the stranger, head ducked like he didn't want to see what was coming. Maggie seemed to think again about the shotgun, but instead planted her feet and her hands on her hips.

"Can I help you?" Maggie called, her voice saying that she'd like nothing less.

"You sure can, sweetheart," the stranger said as he crossed the last fifteen feet. Up close he smelled even worse, and Beth covered her mouth and nose with a hand, trying to be subtle about it, but he noticed and his grin went wide and mean, showing all his teeth. "Hey, this the little one my brother went and turned? She's pretty, Darylina, can't fault you there."

"Excuse me?" Maggie said frostily, stepping forward so she was even more solidly between Beth and the stranger -- Daryl's brother, she guessed, which somehow made him even stranger.

"Well, hell, I forgot to introduce myself," the stranger said. "I'm Merle, and this here's my little brother. Thank you kindly for keeping him in one place for me, I've been trying to catch up to the little bastard for near on a week now." He pulled Daryl forward with a rough hand, abrupt enough that Daryl stumbled.

Daryl's face was set in the same horrible lines as when she'd first seen him in the morning, and Beth realized this was what he'd seen coming, what he'd wanted to avoid her stumbling into. Looking at Merle, she understood, though it was still pretty darn rude to hide the truth from her.

"It's always nice to meet family, Mr. Dixon," Maggie said, making no move to welcome him at all. "But Daryl's just started and doesn't get time off yet. You'll have to come back to see him another day."

Merle opened his mouth to say something, but Daryl whirled and grabbed him hard, thumb digging in to the soft crease of the inner elbow. Under all the dirt, Beth could see Merle's skin go white and blanched. "Yeah, Merle," he said, "I'll walk you off."

Merle looked Daryl up and down, then let out a creaky, wheezy laugh. "Alright, baby brother, you do that."

Beth looked between the Dixon's and Maggie, whose mouth was pressed in a tight, unhappy line as she watched them walk away, Daryl not dropping Merle's arm until they were half the field away. 

"Maybe this wasn't a good idea," she said, quiet, like she was afraid they'd be able to hear her from all that distance.

"What?" Beth asked, though she had the sinking feeling she knew.

"Daryl," Maggie said, "if that's the kind that's following him, I don't know as we want him here."

"It's not his _fault _his brother's kinda creepy," Beth said, heart racing. She didn't want Daryl sent away, not because of his brother. Half because she wanted his help with the Change and half cause she thought she might like him, if he was given a chance to stop biting at every hand that came close, and maybe take a bath.

"It _is _his fault you're a wolf now," Maggie said. "And it's not like he's a good worker. Spooks the cattle."

"He works _hard_," Beth said, though she had no real idea whether that was true or not. It seemed like he would, though, and that was good enough for her. "And he _saved my life_, I don't know how you and Daddy keep forgetting that."

Maggie's mouth twisted like she'd bit something sour. "Well, it's not my call. It's Daddy's."

"You don't gotta tell him," Beth tried, but she knew as she was saying it that it wouldn't work.

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Don't gotta, but I _will_."

Beth looked out after the retreating men. "I'm gonna go take a nap," she said. "I'm kinda wore out."

Maggie eyed her suspiciously, but didn't seem quite ready to call her on it. "I'm locking the door behind you," she said. "Don't trust that Merle as far as I can throw him."

"Whatever you want," Beth said, going inside and heading straight up to her room. Once she was there, she slid the window open and scootched out onto the roof, waiting till Maggie went to the barn to check on the horses before she dropped down and ran after the Dixons.

She'd staked a lot on Daryl being a decent man and she didn't think she was wrong, but she wanted to hear what they were talking about.

They had a lot of ground on her, but it was easier to sneak up on someone in the forest than the fields, so she didn't mind. And the wind was in her favor. Once she was close enough to smell them, she slowed her pace, creeping as close as she dared, crouched in the underbrush, back against a tree, listening to their argument.

It sounded well-worn, like they'd started as soon as they started walking and were now circling back to ground they'd already covered, to neither's satisfaction.

"_Farming_?" Merle was saying. "What kinda pussy-ass work is that? _Tell_ me you're gonna rob 'em and run."

"Told you I ain't," Daryl muttered. "Told you not to come."

"Yeah, you wanted to keep me away from that sweet piece 'a yours. She's _pretty_, baby brother. Does she taste as good as she looks?"

Beth felt her face twist with disgust, but Daryl's voice smoothed it out again. "Told you not to look at her."

"She smells like you, baby brother," Merle crooned. "Hope you're at least getting your dick wet, this bitch has you _farming_."

"Shut the fuck up," Daryl snarled.

"Well," Merle said, "you like her so much, you better teach her how to hide, and quick."

"The fuck're you talking 'bout?" Daryl asked.

Beth could hear the wide, mean smile Merle was wearing, could picture it even after just the one meeting. "I didn't tell you I got a witch-hunter on my tail? He's a good tracker, too, prolly follow me straight to their door. I'll be long gone, of course, but if you're hanging around with your little bitch, you might have some, uh," and here the pleasure in his voice grew thick, "trouble."

Beth wasn't sure what Merle wanted from Daryl, but it was pretty clear she'd just been used as a bargaining chip.

There was a long pause in their voices, though she could hear one of them pacing back and forth. Daryl's voice was sharp when he finally spoke. "_Fuck_ you, Merle, I ain't leaving with you."

"The two of us together, we could take 'im," Merle said, gone from taunting to wheedling. "You and me, brother, together again. We'll be unstoppable."

"_Told _you I wasn't interested."

"You say all sortsa shit, Darylina," Merle drawled. "That whelp a'yours is real pretty, though. You can bring her, if you want, long as you don't mind sharing."

There was a sudden meaty noise, and a howl of rage from Merle. Several more blows landed before Beth realized that was what was happening. Once she knew they were fighting, she had a moment of paralyzed panic -- Merle was so much _bigger_ than Daryl, and they were both so much bigger than her. What could she do? She couldn't let them just beat each other into the ground!

She closed her eyes tight, said a quick prayer, and then rose from her crouch and circled the tree. The Dixons writhed across the ground, a fury of fists. Beth hovered nervously, not wanting to throw herself in and catch a blow. "Stop it," she said, then louder, "_Stop it!"_

Neither acknowledged her. She was a wolf now, she reminded herself. She could be brave.

She reached down to grab Daryl's shoulder and wrench him back, but at her touch he flinched hard, elbow catching her in the gut and sending her stumbling back, gasping, unhurt but winded. He froze where he was, straddling his brother, staring wide-eyed at her, and then he got hurriedly to his feet, tripping over Merle as he first came towards her, hands spread in supplication, then turned and fled.

Sprawled flat on his back on the ground, Merle let out a creaky laugh.

"What are _you_ laughing at," Beth muttered, not sure what to do with herself now. She didn't particularly want to stay and chat with Merle, didn't particularly want to show him her back, either.

"Always been a runner, my brother," Merle said, levering himself upright. His nose was bleeding freely, and Beth tsk'ed, wishing she could stop herself, but knelt beside him and pinched his nose, tilting his head back. He slid an amused glance at her. "No wonder he likes you, soft touch."

"Shut up," she muttered.

"You fucking him?" Merle asked and Beth strongly considered just shoving down on the broken bridge of his nose.

"_No_," she said. "He -- he helped me."

Merle replaced her hand with his own, waving her away. Beth settled back on her heels, finding herself curious about what this rude man had to say. "Always been a bleeding heart," Merle said, which Beth could kind of see, actually. "He helped you and now he's stuck helping you?"

"Not stuck," Beth said. "We have a deal, it's not like I'm taking advantage."

"You best be sure about that," Merle said. "Two of you are about to be in trouble."

"The witch-hunter?" Beth asked. "But we haven't done anything, it's not... illegal to _be_ a werewolf."

"Nah, but you think he's picky about matching crime to criminal?" Merle grinned at her, lip splitting and welling with blood at the stretch. He looked... comfortable, with blood on his teeth, like it was how he was meant to be. "He don't care, long as he's got someone to burn at the end of the day. You get my brother burnt at the stake, we're having _words_, girlie."

"What crime?" she said, ignoring the threat.

Merle grinned again, teeth bloody, menace rolling off his skin like the stink of him, almost a physical blow. "Mighta killed a man or two, while I was in the big city."

Beth wanted to pull back, but she knew that was what he wanted to, was why he'd said it. "I don't believe you," she said, though she wasn't certain that was true. Honestly, she just didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

He let out his raspy, creaking laugh once more, delighted. "You got _balls_, girl. Nah, I didn't kill anyone. Robbed a few, which you wouldn't _think_ was a burning offense, but people are all prickly these days. And the witch-hunter, he just likes to burn."

"And you led him here?" Beth said. "To your brother?"

"Well, I thought Darylina would be more interested in being, oh, what do you call it, _proactive_ with me, but you've gone and turned him into a pussy."

"Swearing at me ain't gonna do anything for you," Beth said.

"You don't like my mouth?" Merle asked, licking his teeth. "Daryl's ain't much better. You get sick 'a him, you send him right along to me, you here? I won't be going too far."

"Yes, you will," Beth said, with some of the iron she'd been searching for all day. "Maggie catches you around the house, she's plugging you full'a lead, and no questions asked. What you say about the witch-hunter, no one else will be, neither."

Merle cackled, but he didn't look like he was very amused. "Oh, she's got some teeth on her. That's good, in a wolf. You know what they do to a toothless wolf?"

She stared unblinkingly at him and he drew a thick finger across his thick neck. "Nothing pretty," he said, as if she hadn't already gotten the gist.

"I'll keep it in mind," she said, standing. "Don't you follow me, Merle Dixon, or I swear you won't have to wait til you lose your teeth."

"G'wan," he said, waving her off. "You got bigger things to worry about than little old me."

As if to agree with him, the muscles in her back rolled hard enough to buckle her back, throwing her into a hunchbacked crouch.

Merle smirked at her like he could smell her fear. Probably he could, which was just annoying. Beth showed him her teeth and straightened, twitching with each roll and jump of her muscles. Then, with all the dignity she could muster, she walked home.

By the time she got to the house, her nails had withdrawn into her fingers and come back out claws. Her fingers were short and padded, fur rippling out and then back in. Her gait was made awkward by the way her hips and knees seemed to have changed orientation, fusing and twisting. Even if the door hadn't been locked, she wouldn't have been able to open it.

"Maggie," she called, and it came out strange, low and mournful and awkward, her mouth long and full of sharp teeth, her lips clumsy and tight.

Maggie came out of the barn at a run, though she hesitated when she saw Beth. Beth didn't blame her; she felt nightmarish and was sure she looked worse, half wolf and tottering around in a floral day dress. To Maggie's credit, her hesitation only lasted a second, and then she was skidding up to Beth. 

"Let's get you in the sickroom," she said, wrapping a cautious hand around Beth's elbow.

Together, they lurched up the steps, Beth leaning against the wall as Maggie fumbled with the keys, dropping them in her haste. Beth could feel the plates of her skull grinding as they lengthened and smoothed, and she wasn't sure she preferred the awareness over the terrifying absence of the seizures she'd had before.

Once they were in, Maggie pushed her into the sickroom, helping her onto the bed, and unbuttoning Beth's shirt and tugging it awkwardly off the new set of her shoulders. Beth spared a moment to be embarrassed, but only a moment -- the next second, a thick coat of fur pushed out all over her body and stayed out. 

For all the build-up, Beth was a little surprised at how anti-climactic it was, in the end. One moment she was straining, muscles and joints screaming with the effort, and the next she was done, fully wolf, though still wearing her skirt. The world looked different through a wolf's eyes; paler, wider, not quite as clear. She swung her head around, looking for Maggie, curious to see if a person would be more changed than a piece of furniture.

Maggie stood very still, and Beth could smell her better than she could see her. The smell of her was familiar, but so much _more_, heady and sweet, the smell of the person Beth loved best in the world. Beth wanted more, and snuffled closer, seeking out Maggie's upraised hands, only noticing their fine tremor when she ran her nose over them. "Beth?" she said in the tone that meant she was biting down nervousness.

What was she nervous about? It was just _Beth_. Though she supposed she did look a little different. How best to communicate that it was still her, that her mind was the same as it had ever been? Beth whined, trying to tell Maggie that she was still herself, just more.

"That you in there?" Maggie asked. No one else would have noticed the unsteadiness in her voice, but Beth did. She'd heard it only a few times, and she'd never caused it. Much as she liked everything else about being a wolf, she didn't much like that.

So she tried to nod. It was hard, the muscles in her neck thicker, her chin so much longer. But it was enough. Maggie let out a trembling breath. "Good," she said. "That's good."

Wagging, Beth sprang at her, planting her -- paws, they were _paws -- _on Maggie's shoulders and kissing her firmly on the cheek. Maggie yelped and swatted her away, but a hundred twenty pounds of wolf was a pretty solid lump of flesh, and Beth did not feel like being moved. She felt like harassing her sister. 

When she was done kissing Maggie, leaving her rather damp and red faced with annoyance, Beth sat back on her haunches, wagging and panting with self-satisfaction.

"You look mighty pleased with yourself," Maggie scowled, scrubbing her face with her sleeve. "Guess you won't need help getting out of that skirt."

Beth whined, tilting her head. She'd always had good puppy-dog eyes, and she was pretty sure having a whole puppy-dog face would just help. Sure enough, Maggie blew out a sigh, though she couldn't keep a smile from her face. 

"Alright," she said, "let's get you out of that."

Maggie slid her skirt and bloomers down while Beth wagged -- she seemed unable to stop, her joy was so all encompassing --and Beth had a moment of embarrassment, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the excitement. "Better hope you don't turn back somewhere public," Maggie muttered, folding Beth's clothes and leaving them on the chair. "Well. Seems silly to keep you cooped up, with those teeth. Could take a man's hand off," she finished approvingly.

Beth was certain that if Maggie'd been the one to turn, she would have taken to it with a sort of vicious enthusiasm, but she seemed satisfied to employ it on Beth's behalf. And when she opened the door, Beth leaped down from the bed and pranced through to the front door, near dancing. Her nails clicked on the floor, a funny kind of noise she hadn't expected, though she thought she might like it. It was _real_. 

"Don't get in trouble out there," Maggie said, hand on the knob. Then she seemed to reconsider. "Well, don't get into _too_ much trouble."

Beth favored her with a doggy smile, tongue lolling, and when Maggie opened the door, she was off like a shot. She could move so _fast _like this. The world was a blur of -- well, mostly yellow, if she was being honest, but who needed to see with a nose like this?

There were so many smells she hadn't even known about. It was like seeing through time, the layers of smells. She could smell the squirrels and chipmunks, the cows and horses, the birds in the trees, and, farther off, Daryl. And Merle, but she didn't much want to see him again, so she veered towards Daryl, wanting to share this with him. This gift he'd given her, not just her life, but _joy_. 

When she finally found him, he was tucked up against a tree like he was hiding from the world, smoking a reeking roll-up. She stopped in front of him, panting, wagging, happiness rolling off her.

He stared at her for a long moment like he didn't know what he was looking at, so she danced from foot to foot, impatient. When he still didn't move to stand or join her, she yipped sharply, the closest she could get to telling him what was what.

He swallowed. "You did it."

She rolled her eyes. He was taking for_ever_. 

Slowly, he rose, lifted a boot and stubbed out his roll-up on the sole of it, and tucked the butt back into his pocket. 

"You, uh," he stopped to clear his throat. "You got through it okay?"

She gave him her awkward nod, then sprinted a quick line in front of him, trying to tempt him into chasing her. When she skidded to a stop before him, she misjudged the distance and bumped into his thighs. Up close, he smelled even better -- she'd wanted to bury her nose in him before he'd had a wash and now, with this better nose, she only wanted it more. If she thought she could have gotten away with it, she would have in a second. Instead, she nipped at his knees and danced back when he swatted at her.

"Brat," he said, but sounded fond. "You want me to run with you?"

She nodded. 

He circled a finger in the air. "Turn around."

She snorted, amused at his shyness, but obediently turned, ears swiveling -- and wasn't _that_ neat! -- as he stripped and went to all fours. The Change, when he did it, seemed to go much faster. Practice, maybe? Whatever it was, it was the work of moments before he padded into sight, a huge black wolf, no less intimidating than he had been the first time. But like the first time, he was so clearly _Daryl_ that it was impossible to be afraid.

If he'd wanted to scare her, he shouldn't have saved her life. It was the sort of first impression you didn't get to take back.

So she pounced on him, nipped his ears, then sprinted away when he growled and took off chasing her. 

Beth had spent so long so unhappy that she'd secretly believed she was no longer capable of happiness, that something inside of her had fundamentally broken when her momma and Shawn died. She'd thought she was doomed to a pale, miserable half-life. 

This, though she was, technically, colorblind, was not only greater than anything she could have pictured for herself, it was great enough to wash the whole miserable months before with light, for leading her to this. While she had been bed-bound, she had hated herself for her weakness, for being so destroyed when Hershel and Maggie had been able to pick themselves up and dust themselves off. She had hated them, too, for being able to walk away from the loss, like Annette and Shawn hadn't been worth more than that, as if life were worth living without them. 

And maybe it was selfish of her to take to this with such unbridled joy, but it wasn't really about the Change. It was that, while she'd hung, choking, before Daryl had reached her, she'd realized Annette wouldn't have wanted her to die, and she didn't either. The Change was just... _fun_. And it had been so long since she'd had fun.

As Daryl tackled her, rolling her to her back and panting in her face, tongue lolling, she had the feeling he hadn't had fun for a while, either. 

It was while she panted happily up at him that the first tremor jerked through her body.

Daryl understood what was happening before she did, scrambling off of her and nudging her up onto her feet, then turning his back.

It went faster, in reverse. It seemed almost like a sneeze; every muscle in her body clenched and released, and then she was human, naked and shivering on all fours, hair hanging about her face, nails dug into the dirt, muscles trembling with the aching satisfaction of hard-use.

She sat back on her heels, shoving her hopelessly tangled hair out of her face and staring at the broad, scarred back in front of her. She considered being self-conscious, then discarded the idea. What was the point? They were in the middle of nowhere, no one around, and seeing her Change seemed more intimate than seeing her naked, not that he was looking.

Carefully, legs screaming with over-use, Beth rose and walked carefully to Daryl, standing beside him and just behind, so he couldn't quite see her. Just because she wasn't embarrassed didn't mean she wanted to give him an eye-full.

"Can you lead me back?" she said, thinking of how she would approach the farmhouse naked. The day was growing late, shadows stretching long, but not late enough to hide her. Walking up in her all-together seemed a good way to give her daddy a heart attack. 

Daryl chuffed an answer she took as an affirmative, and led her back into the woods. On two feet, the way was longer, but she was unsurprised when they came to his neat pile of clothes. She'd caught whiffs of their earlier route, though this nose seemed near useless compared to the other. Daryl had carefully not looked at her once, and Beth found her surety that he was a good man settling like granite. 

She waited for him to turn back, shivering, arms wrapped around her, not quite sure how she felt about the breeze on her naked legs and belly and... the place between. When he didn't she went, "_Oh_, you want me to wear them?"

He made a funny grunting noise, like he wanted to call her stupid, but didn't have the set-up for it. She smirked at the back of his head and pulled his clothes on, starting with the dungarees -- no underwear, she noticed, though she wasn't certain if that was by choice or lack of opportunity. His pants hung low on her hips and she had to keep hiking them up. The sleeveless holes of his shirt, which merely fit his heavy shoulders and biceps hung low on her, showing the sides of her breasts. His boots slid loosely on her feet with every step she took.

Somehow, she felt more indecent than she had naked. But she buttoned the last button on the shirt and pulled the pants up one more time, fisting her hand in the waistband to keep them from sliding down once more. "I'm decent," she said, tongue thrilling with the lie, and watched Daryl turn and look at her.

She couldn't read his wolfy face, but he didn't look at her long, glancing away as if embarrassed. It weren't about her wearing pants, neither, or he wouldn't have been able to look at Maggie much, and he'd never seemed to have trouble with that. A heat spread through her, different than that of the Change, though she couldn't quite name it yet.

Beth would keep it to herself, for now, hoard that warmth until she was ready to share it. "Ready?" she asked, and he rolled his eyes, funnier to see on a wolf than it had felt to do it.

"That was so _fun_," she said, twirling as they started back towards the farmhouse. She let him lead, still dazed with the shock of her first Change. "Is it always like that?"

He glanced sidelong at her, as if to remind her that he couldn't respond, and she stuck out her tongue at him. "Don't be _grumpy_," she ordered. "That was _wonderful_."

She sighed happily. "I feel much better now. And I'm sorry if I was... unkind, this morning. I wasn't feeling right, but that's no excuse," she said conscientiously. His rudeness had been born from concern, misplaced as it had ended up being. "You don't gotta protect me, you know," she said, ignoring his grunt of disbelief. "I can take care'a myself. And your brother... well, I understand why you didn't want me stumbling into him, but he's not so scary as all that. Or at least," she said, looking at the scars on Daryl's back, and deeply aware how much there was she didn't know of him and his history, "he didn't hurt me. I'm pretty sturdy, Mr. Dixon."

He kept his head forward, and so he saw Hershel and the sheriff before she did, giving a soft growl that drew Beth from her careless mood and into high alert.

Rick stood on the porch and leaned against the railing, patrol car parked in the drive, his badge flashing in the early evening sun. Hershel stood rigid next to him, and Beth slowed in her approach, not quite sure _how_ it looked to walk home in a man's clothes while the man himself padded in wolf form beside her, but fairly certain it didn't look _good_.

"Hey, Daddy, Mr. Grimes," she called. "We havin' dinner?"

"Rick has some news for us, Bethy," Hershel said, and Beth knew immediately that it wasn't good news.

She glanced around quick, trying to figure out who was missing. "Where's Maggie? Is she alright? Otis? Patricia?" With each shake of Hershel's head, she grew more confused. "Glenn?"

"Everyone's fine, sweetheart," Rick said. "And _this_ answers a lotta questions for me. Why don't you get cleaned up, and Daryl can put his skin on again, and I'll let you know what's going on."

Beth nodded and went straight in, only pausing when she noticed Daryl had left her side before she mounted the porch. Instead he sat before the stairs, looking as downcast as it was possible for a wolf to look. "I'll be right back with your clothes," she called to him, but he didn't even look at her.

She dressed with trembling hands, didn't bother dragging a brush through her wildly knotted hair, just pulled into a ponytail, and ran back down the stairs, thrusting Daryl's clothes at him before realizing he didn't have hands. "I'll put them on your bed," she said, and ran back in.

Beth was shocked at how little he'd brought -- most of the workers, though they didn't bring furniture or much in the way of decorations, had a few knick-knacks or a bag or something, something that was theirs, and had been. Daryl seemed to have only brought the clothes on his back. The clothes he'd let her borrow. A wave of guilt rose up in her. 

To assuage it, she pulled his covers into order and folded his clothes. The least she could do was make things nice for him. Then, shivering with the knowledge that she'd seen more than he would want, Beth headed back.

This time, when she held the door for him, Daryl padded past her, close enough that his thick fur brushed her knees, prickly and warm even through the thin fabric of her skirt.

When she closed the door for him, she turned to her father and Rick, hugging herself. "What's goin' on?"

"Best to wait for Daryl," Hershel said, face stern. But then he relaxed into a smile and opened his arms to her. Beth went into his hug gratefully, letting him rock her from side to side as he had since before she could remember. "I assume you made it through the Change safe, Bethy?"

"Oh, Daddy, it was _wonderful_," she sighed. "The world smells so different."

"I'm glad," he whispered into the crown of her head. "You know I was worried about you."

Daryl had obviously sensed the urgency as much as Beth had, and burst through the door a moment later, wincing when the screen swung too wide and bounced off the wall behind it. "You got news, Officer?" he said, something about his delivery, intentional or not, giving the title a sardonic twist.

"Yeah, and I'm real glad to be the one to tell it," Rick said, standing straight, hands on his hips, hat tipped up so his face was only a little shadowed. "I ran into your Daddy while he was doing his rounds at the Johnson house. They had a cow get ripped up."

Daryl's face went white. Beth looked at him, then glanced out into the woods where they'd left Merle.

"They called the witch-hunter," Rick continued. "He was only a town away, made himself real easy to find. He's set up in our town now."

"Calling himself the General," Hershel said with distaste. "Went and checked him out, as I thought it would be more suspicious not to. Daryl, you know I have to ask you. Did you kill that cow?"

Daryl shook his head wordlessly, staring at his feet. "Was it ate?" he asked, not looking up. "The cow. Was it ate, or just ripped up?"

Rick's look sharpened, like he was reevaluating Daryl. "Just ripped up, far as I can tell. Looked like a big show to me."

_Merle_, Beth thought. What better way to drive Daryl back to him than frame him?

"Now, the Greenes have done a lot for me, over the years," Rick said, "so Hershel tells me not to ask questions, and I'm not. Speaking in generalities here, it seems a bad time to be a wolf in Senoia."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay -- couldn't figure out how to finish this chapter. Still not sure I did, but wanted to move on anyway. You know how it goes.

It might have been a bad time to be a wolf in Senoia, but Daryl had lived through a lot of bad times to be a wolf. You asked him, any time was a bad time to be a wolf, 'specially when your pack was Merle Dixon, who had never met a situation he couldn't make worse.

Merle had made his move -- several of them, each meant to draw Daryl back to him. But Daryl had been on his own since the last time Merle got arrested, found it wasn't as hard as he'd thought. And he liked where he was now, something that never failed to surprise him. But his clothes still smelled like the girl who'd chided and bullied him into having _fun_ for the first time in a long, long time, and he couldn't lie to himself.

He lit a cigarette, firmly perched on the porch, watching the sun set and the stars start to blink into visibility, slowly, one at a time, like they weren't quite ready to take their shift in the sky. Behind him, inside the house, he could hear the conversation over the dinner table, and knew there would be food waiting for him, if he were to turn and go inside. 

But he'd told Hershel, face turned down so he wouldn't have to see how much he'd already disappointed this man, that he wanted to keep a watch out, that he'd settle easier if he knew Beth was safe. And though he hadn't named who she'd be safe from, Hershel had dropped a friendly hand on his shoulder and told him it was an awful decent thing to do.

So he was keeping watch, protecting, to the best of his meager abilities, this family that had taken him in, though he'd meant them nothing but evil, afore he knew them.

Tomorrow, he would take the milk cart into town with Hershel, scout out this Witchhunter General while Hershel sold the milk to the dairy. 

It was good to have a plan. Helped him keep his mind clear.

And he needed all the help he could get; with Beth's smell so thick in his nose, he kept thinking about how they'd played earlier. Her joy had been infectious, her delight in his company... flattering. And her self-possessed dignity, walking naked back to his clothes... Daryl weren't no kinda pervert, and he wasn't the sort to take pleasure in another's bad luck, 'less the other were a worse sort than Beth, but it had been hard for him to keep from sneaking a glance or two at her. It wasn't, so much, that he wanted to see naked, though he would be lying if he called her hard on the eyes. It was that, for a girl he'd saved from the noose only a few nights past, she near vibrated with life. And he'd just... wanted to see if it shone out from under her skin, the way it seemed it should.

It had and it hadn't. She'd looked like a person, like any other, but _more_. He'd heard pregnant women had a glow, though he'd never seen it. Most of the pregnant women he'd ever met had been drawn by it, like the baby in their bellies was sapping everything they had to give. And whatever man as had put the baby there beat the rest out. 

But Beth had glowed, her face shining with joy, dewed with sweat. It had been like she'd swallowed the sun, and nothing as mundane as being naked in the presence of a near stranger would dim it.

The fact that her daddy hadn't killed him yet was near as confusing as her comfort in his presence.

He didn't know what to do with these Greenes, who trusted too easily, trusted _him_ too easily. Didn't they have eyes? Couldn't they see who he was? _What_ he was? With her new nose, couldn't Beth smell it on him, the corruption _his _daddy had left him? Didn't they know what monster they had invited in, given a seat at the table?

The door creaked open behind him and he could smell Beth, stronger by far than the cigarette in his hand.

"You ain't sulking out here, are ya?" she asked, coming up next to him and setting a plate on the bannister next to his elbow. It was full, chicken and greens and mashed potatoes, the kind of dinner that he'd dream of on cold, hungry nights.

"Nah," he said, stubbing out his cigarette on the sole of his boot and tucking it back in his pack. He _was_ hungry, he realized with the food before him. "Just watching."

She hummed acknowledgement, leaning next to him, back to the bannister, head turned so she was looking right at him. Warm light from the house washed over her face, and he saw her as she had been, naked, glowing with her successful change, and he ducked his head in embarrassment, snagging the chicken breast with his fingers and taking a bite.

"I brought you cutlery," she said, just a little snotty.

He grunted, chewing the chicken. "I see it."

She snorted, and he chanced a glance, relieved to find that she looked amused rather than disgusted.

She was quiet long enough that he grew anxious, feeling that she shouldn't be lingering out here with his bad manners and worse temper. She should be inside, with her family, taking part in the conversation Daryl could just hear snatches of, the occasional wave of laughter rising and washing out through the screen door. Finally, as he was stuffing the last of the chicken in his mouth, almost desperate enough to speak himself, she said, "You think we're in danger?"

He shrugged.

"You _do_," she said firmly, "elsewise, you wouldn't be out here, keeping a look out. Who's the danger, do you think?"

The General or Merle, she meant. And Daryl didn't know how to answer that, didn't know what he thought his own self. Merle was a dumb sonuvabitch but he wasn't about to drag any of the Greenes out of bed and slit their throats. The General didn't know about Beth, and hopefully didn't know about Daryl either, but Daryl had met men of principle before. Hadn't gotten along well with them. Didn't have high hopes for this one, neither.

So he shrugged again.

Beth rolled her eyes, exaggerated with a roll of her head so she could be sure he saw it in the low light. "What's the chances either of 'em come tonight?" she asked.

Not high, he had to admit. Merle wanted Daryl to come to him and wasn't the sort to sneak in under cover of night. Daryl didn't know much of the General, 'sides his name, but it was an uncommon man who could hunt down a stranger he hadn't even heard tell of in one night. And it wasn't like the farm was over close to town -- it was a good forty-five minutes by horse. Likely they were safe tonight.

And tomorrow, Hershel was taking him to town and they would learn more.

Beth could see it when he gave in, straightening from the railing, not quite wriggling with excitement, not quite doing anything else either. "We left a spot for you," she told him as she headed in, holding the door open for him.

And Daryl followed her into the light.

\--

After the morning milking, Daryl helped Hershel prepare the cart for the trip to town, which meant that he and Glenn and Otis hefted the five gallon cans into the bed as Hershel hitched the horses. There were enough cans that even Daryl found it hard work.

When it was fully loaded, Daryl swung up onto the seat next to Hershel, uncomfortable and doing his best not to show it.

Hershel clicked his tongue and snapped the reins and they were off, the horses ambling at an easy pace. Daryl found himself shifting, wanting to hurry, but when Hershel cast an amused glance over at him, he forced himself to settle.

It was like hunting, he told himself, to make the immobility easier. It wasn't impotence. It wasn't inability. It was patience. An impatient hunter caught no game -- he may have learned that lesson on deer and raccoon and squirrel, but it was true of humans as well.

So he took a deep breath and settled into his skin, not thinking, not planning, just knowing that whatever he found in town he could manage. And if he couldn't, well, worrying now wouldn't change it.

"You know," Hershel said, as the farm disappeared around a turn in the road behind them, "I was dubious about you at first. Beth twisted my arm a bit, I'll admit that. But you've proven me wrong, and I want to apologize for treating you with suspicion."

Daryl snorted. "That was suspicion? You welcome ever Tom, Dick, and Harry in off the street?"

"I do my best to run a welcoming home," Hershel said, even and calm and warm. "I misjudged you, Daryl. And I can't tell you how grateful I am for saving Beth."

Heat rose in Daryl's face and he stared determinedly at the road before them, the horses rumps, their swishing tails. "Weren't nothing," he mumbled.

"To you, perhaps," Hershel said. "To me, my youngest daughter has returned after months in a world where I could not reach her. Wilder than I thought I would ever have to deal with from that corner, maybe, but Maggie has me well broken to wildness."

"Wasn't me," Daryl said, suddenly desperate for Hershel to understand just how little a part he had played in Beth's return. "I just cut her down. She made the decision herself."

"Be that as it may, she wouldn't have had the opportunity without you. But I understand; you are not a man who takes praise easily, and so I will stop forcing it on you. Just know that I am grateful." With that, true to his word, Hershel fell silent.

Hershel understood him too well. It made him nervous. Too many ways for things to go wrong, when people knew what you were thinking. Too many ways to be hurt. That Hershel didn't seem inclined towards hurting didn't much help -- Daryl had been on guard too long to let it down easily.

They rode in silence until the town drew up around them, buildings coming more frequently until Hershel was clicking and ha'ing the horses to pull into the dairy. When he had the cart in position, he hollered into the open doors of the dairy and a few men came out. Daryl turned and went into the cart bed, ready to hand down the milk cans, but the men didn't come to the end of the cart, instead heading for the head, where Hershel sat, knotting the reins to the front brace.

"Hershel!" one of them called, "Good to see you! You got some good milk for me?"

"As ever," Hershel said, swinging down with a grunt. "You know my girls, sweet and true."

"The cows are nice, too," the man said, and Hershel laughed, politely.

"You let Maggie hear you say that, you'll see just how true her hook is," Hershel said. 

Daryl hid a smile as he unlatched the back of the cart and jumped down and got to unloading by himself. The others could chew the fat if they wanted, but he had places to be, and no stock of patience to use. He didn't pretend to know the Greenes, but he thought _both_ girls might take offense to being condescended at. It was something he respected.

He'd made a solid dent in the cans by the time the others started helping, and they were before too long, Hershel taking a thin stack of cash and a great deal of cheese in exchange.

When they headed into Senoia proper, Hershel tied up in front of the General Store. "I got some buying to do, a few sundries Maggie forgot the other day. I'll ask around my own people. They're not liable to talk openly with strangers."

Daryl nodded, understanding exactly what Hershel was saying. Appreciated that, although Hershel had already investigated to his satisfaction, that Hershel only needed to care about this because of what Daryl had brought down on him, he was willing to take the town's temperature, see how likely it was that neighbors would tell the General they'd heard howling in the woods around the Greene house. Appreciated that he didn't have to say any of that. "Won't be long," he said instead, which was the best thanks he knew how to give. 

"He's set up in the bar," Hershel said, mouth pinched with distaste. "I'd appreciate it, you don't bring anything home. Trouble or liquor, though they're often one and the same."

"You a sober man?" Daryl asked with a spark of interest. He hadn't seen a drop of alcohol since he'd come to the Greene farm, but he'd figured they just didn't share with the farmhands, especially the dirty ones that scratched up the youngest daughter. 

"Have been for a long time," Hershel said, with the sort of shading to his words that told Daryl that the years before going dry had been soaking. 

It was the sort of thing Daryl knew was hard to share. So, awkwardly, he offered his own vulnerability. When a man you respected showed his throat, you didn't show teeth, after all. "Wish my daddy'd had that kinda sense," he said, and Hershel looked sharply at him.

"Mine too," Hershel said, a moment of understanding between them, sharp enough to hurt, but a clean sort of pain, like pulling a splinter.

Daryl nodded awkwardly and headed for the bar.

The door was propped open, men spilled across the porch and throughout the interior, all spaced and turned in a way that drew attention to the man at their center. He was dark-haired, an eyepatch over one eye, and he reeked of aconite, a sprig of the purple flower tucked in the buttonhole of his silk vest. He'd sweat heavily in the late spring heat, and the combination made Daryl's nose itch.

He rubbed it, fighting down a sneeze, and headed for the General.

The man glanced up at Daryl's approach, turning from the conversation he'd been involved in with a blonde woman. "Hello, stranger. Have you come with a tip for us?"

"Nah," Daryl said. "'m worried about the news, don't like the thought of a wolf around my stock. You got any leads yet?"

This close, the smell of the aconite was making his skin prickle, and he scratched, then forced himself to stop. The General's eye was sharp, but he merely smiled. "The investigation has just begun, but I assure you, I've been tracking this wolf for weeks now. He won't evade me much longer."

"You ain't got him for weeks, what makes you think you'll get him now?" Daryl asked, surly, both in truth and in character. 

"I assure you," the General said, smooth as silk, "I am experienced enough at my work to know when the chase is close to an end. He's gotten sloppy. Tired, I can only assume. He's not as well provisioned as I, I assure you."

"Well," Daryl said, entirely unsatisfied with the amount of information he'd gotten, but unable to spend another minute smelling the thick sweetness of the aconite, "don't fuck it up."

The General raised his eyebrows. "I shall endeavor not to."

Daryl grunted and retreated, scratching frantically the moment he was out of the bar and the General's sight. He didn't growl at the men on the porch, but it was a near thing, some vestige of self preservation rising up to silence him. 

He headed back to the cart, thinking about running the entire time. He could strike out for the mountains, lose Merle and the General and the Greenes, return to the life he'd been living, safe.

Alone.

When he saw Hershel, he shook his head, not wanting to talk until the last of the aconite was out of his nose. Obligingly, Hershel untied the horses and clicked them into movement, letting Daryl sit in silence for as long as he needed.

Finally, Daryl spoke, scratching at his arm until thick welts rose. "Not what he says he is."

"Not a witch-hunter?" Hershel asked in surprise.

"Might be that," Daryl said, "but not a man of principle. Most hunters, they come after a wolf, they've got hounds." He didn't share how he knew that, didn't see the need to mention the way hounds had taken down his father, how they'd torn into him with a wild glee Daryl couldn't even begrudge, as he'd watched. "Don't travel with that sort of _posse,_ like they're a fuckin' celebrity. Something smells dirty, and not just his fuckin' flower." He scratched contemplatively a little more, then noticed blood welling and scowled at his arm like that could make his skin knit. "Bet Merle owes him money."

"I don't want to speak ill of your brother," Hershel started carefully, but Daryl interrupted him with a snort. 

"Feel fuckin' free."

"When we get back to the farm, I'll ask you to mind your tongue," Hershel said mildly. "I do try to set an example for my girls."

Daryl, wisely, said nothing about Beth walking around naked like some sort of goddess of the hunt, Artemis brought forward in time and pulling time back with her.

Hershel continued. "I don't wish to speak ill of your brother, but it seems..."

"He's fucked us," Daryl said. "Sorry. Screwed us."

"Mm, keep trying," Hershel said.

Daryl rolled his eyes and caught Hershel smiling. "Got us in a pretty fuckin' pickle."

"Closer," Hershel said, but the warm amusement in his voice was nothing like a reprimand. "Do you think we're in danger from the General, if he's just collecting on a debt?"

"Dunno," Daryl said, scowling. "Guess it depends. If he thinks Merle would pay up to keep me safe, maybe. Maybe he'd just try to shake us down instead. Didn't get that good a sense of him."

"Would he? Merle, I mean. Pay up to keep you safe."

Daryl shot a suspicious look in Hershel's direction, but Hershel looked genuine, like he was concerned for Daryl, not looking to sell him out, so, begrudgingly, he answered. "Nah. Merle can't keep his money in his pockets, and if I couldn't get myself free, I wouldn't be worth saving."

"He said that?"

"Don't need to."

Hershel stared forward for a long moment. "Would you save him, if he needed you?"

Daryl chewed on the thought for a while. "Wanna say no. Any trouble he's in, Merle brought on himself. Been trying to keep clear of his messes since he got locked up."

"But you don't know that you could stop yourself, if you saw him needing your help?"

Daryl settled his shoulders higher, hunching in on himself. No matter that Hershel's voice was carefully even and non-judgmental, Daryl was judging himself. What kind of idiot was he, to keep getting sucked into Merle's messes? What kind of traitor was he, to abandon his brother. "Dunno," he mumbled.

Hershel looked at him, then away. "I understand."

That was a pretty trick, seeing as Daryl himself didn't see shit. But Hershel was pretty clear-eyed, so maybe he saw _something_.

They finished the ride in silence, Daryl still on high alert, both from the lingering itch of aconite and the deeper ache Hershel's questions had uncovered.

When they got back, Beth ran out to meet them, wearing some of Maggie's pants. Or maybe they were her own and Daryl just hadn't seen them before -- either way, he couldn't help noticing the shape of her legs, the way the shirt nipped in at her waist, narrow enough that he wanted to press his hand against it, see how far his fingers could span. It was a dirty thought to be having about a girl who'd done nothing but kindness to him, so he kept his eyes low, where they wouldn't get into any trouble.

Beth helped unhitch the horses. "What's the news?" she pressed, leading Nelly to a crosstie.

"Daryl suspects the General isn't on the up-and-up," Hershel said, swinging the heavy leather harness up onto its hook. "I'm inclined to agree. Word about town is he's awful nosy and asking all the wrong questions."

"Like what?" she asked, a crease between her eyebrows.

"Any money gone missing, any thefts of valuables, nosing around where people keep their wealth." They weren't the _wrong_ questions, when it came to tracking Merle, but they weren't the right questions, either, for tracking a werewolf on that crime.

The only werewolves as needed hunting were the rabid kind, the maneaters, the ones that ripped their ways through other people. Otherwise, lycanthropy was a sort of dirty secret at best; no more embarrassing than illegitimacy, or a habit for liquor. Not worth tracking a man over country lines for. And Merle had his vices, but he'd never been a maneater.

It wasn't a high bar, but Daryl had never needed Merle to be _good_. He'd needed him to be _there_, and mostly, mostly Merle could do that. Not always, but Daryl'd understood -- if he could've left, before he did, he would have. Merle had never hit him, and he'd shown Daryl how to survive, how to keep moving forward. It was a gift Daryl would never look down on. Every time Merle failed him, he remembered that, remembered Merle telling him how best to avoid the blow, and how to take it if he had to, how crying only ever made things worse.

Beth's voice dragged him out of the darkness. "Well, that's good, nothing will point to us, then."

"Nah," Daryl agreed, though he wasn't as sure as she was. In his experience, bad things didn't need to be pointed your way, they just found you.

\--

While the Greenes worked on the choring, Daryl went to find his brother.

It wasn't hard; Merle wanted to be found, and he'd left a scent-trail thick and heavy all the way to where he'd built a small camp, a twist of cow's blood and human sweat almost a physical weight in the air. When Daryl found him, he was lounging against a tree, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, the mauled cow's liver, half-eaten, on a rock by a fire ring, sloppily assembled. 

"Took you long enough," Merle drawled, only drunk enough to make warmth curl around his words.

"Weren't in no hurry to see your ugly ass," Daryl muttered, dipping to yank the bottle away from Merle. He took a swig, just to brace himself, and started coughing. It was the worst moonshine he'd ever had, and he'd had some bad stuff -- this made him think of all the men he'd known who'd gone blind.

"Don't be a pussy," Merle said, but still warm, still like he was happy to see Daryl.

"The fuck'd you do to that asshole? That Witchhunter General bastard sure ain't hunting no cowkiller."

"Oh, I stole his bitch," Merle said.

Daryl glanced around at all the lack of woman around, and Merle scoffed, threw a handful of leaf litter at him.

"She left me too," Merle said. "Some women ain't got a faithful bone. But the man don't care about that, he just cares that she didn't want _him_ no more."

"He's following you with a lit damn match over a _woman_," Daryl said, trying to make the sentence make sense. He'd thought it would be something important. A theft or something. Damaged pride. Though he supposed a man with an ego in all the wrong places could view it as that. "A woman that ain't even here."

"That's the long and short of it. So what about it, little brother? You gonna help me shake this motherfucker?"

"I do, you'll leave?"

Merle sawed out a laugh. "You want to stay with that pretty little bitch of yours, doncha?"

"Don't call her that," Daryl said, not sure exactly which part he was rejecting -- the notion that Merle thought Beth pretty enough to notice, that she was a bitch, that she was his.

"That's not a _no_, Darylina," Merle taunted, but this woman who'd loved and left him must have done him some good; he left it there, didn't follow the scent of blood till he found the wound. "If you're gonna be a pussy about it, the least you can do is help me deal with the bastard."

"Deal how?" Daryl said.

Merle shrugged expansively, but he was drunker than Daryl had thought. He didn't get up, didn't pace, didn't gesture or threaten. He stayed where he was, leaning against the tree, looking like nothing more than an old, dying lion, worn out but still magnificent with the threat he had been. Daryl felt a surge of pity all of a sudden. "Whatever it takes. Talking with him hasn't worked yet."

"I ain't killing for you, Merle."

"That what you think of me?" Merle asked, and his exhaustion rose up to swallow them both. "I ain't Dad. I ain't a maneater."

"I know," Daryl said quietly, aware of how much he could hurt Merle, how much he _had_ hurt Merle. He was so used to it going the other way, so used to Merle being impenetrable, made of scar tissue and sinew, doling out hurt and wisdom with a heavy hand. He didn't apologize, though, did nothing to call attention to this vulnerability. That was the best apology he knew, though it seemed insufficient. He didn't want only to avoid new pain, he wanted to soothe the old. He was tired of hurting.

"I just need," Merle said, paused, scrubbed a hand over his face. "I need a fresh set'a eyes. I ain't been able to shake him, nor convince him, nor scare him. I'm running outta options here, baby brother."

"A'right," Daryl said finally, "I'll help you." Though he wasn't sure how.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I reached the part of my outline that said, "You'll have figured it out by the time you get here," and reader? I had not.

Beth wasn't sure if she was being naive or if there really wasn't anything to worry about. It had been a week since the General came to town and, as far as she could tell, nothing had happened yet. Daryl was withdrawn and spent a great deal of time off by himself in the woods. When she'd tried to follow him, he'd snapped at her, bad enough that she'd actually taken him seriously, but he hadn't managed to chase her off before she caught Merle's scent. So he was plotting with his brother. That wasn't a surprise, not really. No matter how bad she and Maggie fought sometimes, she didn't think she'd ever be able to turn her back on her. 

The farm's isolation likely had something to do with how little news made it out to them, but Hershel took the milk to the creamery every day and there had been no new wolf kills, no robberies, and the General had not moved out of his seat at the bar. It was, although she wouldn't say this where Daryl or Daddy could hear, kind of boring. She'd thought a wolf hunt would be fast paced, high adrenaline, or at least a hunt.

Not that she knew much about hunting. Otis was the only hunter on the farm, or he had been before Daryl came. Suddenly, Beth found herself needing to know more about hunting, about technique. Instinct could only take her so far. 

She could ask Otis, but he'd just ask her daddy. She could ask Daryl, but the way he'd been lately, he'd just say no. So Beth got dressed in her Sunday best and knotted a pretty little scarf around her neck to cover the scratches and took Nelly into town. Tacking up took longer than normal; Nelly kept sidestepping and showing the whites of her eyes, but Beth fed her apples and sugar until the horse seemed to remember the girl around the wolf and settled. The ride to town was easy, though Beth took it faster than normal, pushing Nelly into a canter, just for the thrill of the wind in her hair. Her dress was hiked up over her thighs and the saddle pinched, moving this fast, but Beth didn't care.

She didn't think she'd ever tire of freedom.

When she got to town, she tied Nelly up by the water trough and gave her another sugar cube from her pocket. She straightened her dress and her hair, and then she went to the bar.

Stepping across the threshold, she had to blink hard. The street had been bright with the summer sun, but the bar was dark, more'n half the windows shuttered. The shutters trapped the heat in as well as the darkness, and she fanned herself, squinting around while she waited for her eyes to adjust. There were a lot of bodies in here, which didn't help the heat one bit, and something else too, something that made her nose and skin itch.

When she could see properly, she headed towards the General. It was impossible to confuse him with anyone else, the way the others moved around and looked at him. He wore an eyepatch and confidence and a purple flower in his buttonhole.

"Hi there," she said, putting on her sweetest voice. "It's more'n a little stuffy in here. You the Witchhunter General?"

"I am, darlin'," he said, rising to meet her. He took her hand, kissed the back of it. Her skin itched. "You have me at a disadvantage, my dear. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking? And _how_ may I help you?"

When he relinquished her hand, she had to clasp both behind her back, to keep herself from scratching. Sweat rolled down her neck. "Well, my name is Miss Beth Greene, and I have been hearing the most awful rumors," she said. "So I figured, I could sit at home getting all the more nervous, or I could come meet the man doing something about it, reassure myself, like."

"I am happy to reassure, Miss Greene," the General said.

"Oh, that is such a relief," she said, and batted her eyelashes, only doubting herself after it was done. Too much? But he seemed like the kind of ego that wouldn't notice. "I must admit, I've been mighty fearful lately. We don't get so much news up at the homestead, and I, well, I don't much like being afraid."

"Miss Greene," the General said, his eye sweeping over her, a little too calculating for her comfort, "how about you walk with me, and I'll tell you all you need to know to settle your spirits."

"That would be lovely, General," she said, and smiled at him. 

He offered her his arm and she took it, trying to hide her reluctance by wiping the sweat from her brow and neck before taking it. Her handkerchief she kept clutched in other hand, like it was some sort of weapon. What would she do, throw her sweat at him before running away? The image was funny enough that she relaxed a bit as they walked.

"How does one hunt a werewolf?" she asked, squinting in the sun. After even that brief time in the dark, it was almost painful to adjust once more to the light. "I'm not a hunter, myself, I admit, but I understand the hunting of deer and coyotes. A werewolf must be a breed apart."

"It is," he told her. His arm under her hand was hard with muscle, though not, she noted smugly, as muscled as Daryl's. "Hunting a werewolf is the hardest parts of hunting both man and wolf."

Her hand had started to itch shortly after she laid it on his arm, and the itching only got worse the longer they walked. When she peeked at her arm, a red rash had begun to come up wherever they were in contact. She pulled away from him and smiled. "If we're seen so close, my daddy'll expect you to come courting," she said. "And I'm sure you've better things to do with your time. Tell me about the hunt."

His gaze dropped to her arms, and she held her hands behind her back, turning them so the rash wasn't visible. He smiled back, though she found she didn't trust it. "When hunting both man and wolf," the General said, as they began to walk once more, "it's important to know where he is at all times. Hunting through the woods is a matter of following the tracks -- footprints, scat, the bones of his victims. Easy enough, if you know what you're looking for. Civilization is a different question. There's no following footprints or scat. So you must look carefully for victims, and understand your prey. Most people only ever act one way. Take the wolf I'm tracking here; in Atlanta, he had a tendency towards robbery and killing. Following him has been simple, because wherever he goes, he does both. It's merely a matter of keeping ones eye open. Wolves aren't that clever, when you get down to it."

"Surely some must be," Beth argued, though she was careful to keep her tone light and rhetorical, "otherwise anyone would be able to do it, and we wouldn't need men like you."

His eye narrowed, but only for a moment. Her heart beat hard in her throat, so she smiled a pretty smile and looked up at him through her lashes, so that he would think she'd been flirting. "Anyone _could_ do what I do, sweetheart," he said. "It's only that few have the dedication. Too many men flinch from the hard decisions." He turned to her, took hold of her chin and turned her face to his. She met his gaze levelly, swallowing hard against the desire to show him her teeth. "Be careful in that farm of yours, sweetheart. There's no one out there to hear you scream."

She took his wrist carefully in her hand and pulled it away from her face. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, so loud she was sure he could hear it, and the stink of her own fear almost overwhelmed the sickly smell of the flower in his lapel. "Thank you for your concern, General, but we're used to taking care of ourselves."

"You ever need a hand," he said, "you know where to find me."

"I do," she said, thinking unkind thoughts. "Thank you for your time, General, but I gotta be getting back to choring. Cows don't take a day off."

"Of course," he said, and watched as she walked away, watched as she untied Nelly and mounted up.

She patted Nelly on the neck, grateful that the horse hadn't shied under his suspicious eye. Beth didn't _think_ he knew, but she sure wasn't feeling confident in her decision anymore. 

Beth rode home at a canter, glorying in the wind through her hair, trying to leave her nerves behind her in town. She wouldn't tell Daddy where she'd gone, he'd just get angry, or worse: disappointed. She'd had enough of disappointing him. She was pretty sure Daryl and Maggie wouldn't take it well, either. She could tell Merle, but that would require talking to him, and she wasn't worried enough to justify that.

So it hadn't gone as well as she'd hoped, and she didn't have any stunning new insights into the General, but she didn't _think_ he knew she was a werewolf, and she also didn't think he was very good at his job. It was a trade she was willing to make.

She nudged Nelly faster and faster as they approached the farm until Nelly was flying down the road, Beth crouched over her neck, hair and skirt whipping with the wind. How long had it been since she'd done this? How had she let herself forget what joy was? Neither her Momma nor Shawn would have wanted that for her. She would make them proud, now.

When they passed the gate and the finish line she'd marked for herself, she sat back, used her seat to soothe Nelly back first to a canter, then a trot, then finally a spirited walk. Foam sweat flecked Nelly's neck and she tossed her head, though Beth had left the reins loose all the time -- Nelly was nervous enough without the bit in her teeth. Beth had long ago learned that she would never win by strength alone. The only way to ride a beast so much bigger and stronger than her was to listen always to what was and wasn't being said, and to be consistent and firm. She couldn't control Nelly's feelings or actions, but she could make herself a steady, reassuring presence. She could let the horse know that she would never use spurs or yank on her soft mouth or ask her for more than she could give.

With Nelly, that sometimes meant taking the long way around a paper bag or especially threatening branch, but Beth was patient, and Nelly had always responded better to her than anyone else. Maggie wasn't quite hopeless with the more skittish animals, but she was close.

When Beth slithered off Nelly's back, legs aching with the pleasure of exertion after so long out of the saddle, she patted Nelly's neck and started walking her around the yard to cool her down.

That was how Daryl found them, coming out from behind the house. He'd probably been in the far fields, dropping off fodder for the cows. There was a cigarette clamped between his lips and she wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell, pretending she didn't see his glare. "How do you smoke those things with this sense of smell?" she asked, pushing her windblown hair behind her ears. Her braid had come entirely undone on the ride back, and she was sure she looked a mess.

"You smell like wolfsbane," he said, ignoring her question.

Is that what the purple flower in the General's buttonhole had been? "Will it wash off?" she asked. "I'm itching something fierce."

"You went to see him." Daryl said it flat, not leaving room for denial, so Beth didn't bother to try. She hadn't much planned on it anyway, though he was reacting just as bad as she'd thought he would.

"I have an idea," she said, undoing Nelly's girth as she shifted nervously from foot to foot, flaring her nostrils at Daryl and showing him the whites of her eyes. "Can you stand downwind? You're spooking Nelly."

Scowling, he moved downwind. "Shouldn't've done that," he said.

He was awful cute when he pouted like this. "Don't you wanna hear my idea?" she asked, hiding her smile as she pulled the saddle from Nelly's back. The saddle pad was soaked with sweat, and she hung it over the fencing by the barn before she snagged some brushes and started working on Nelly.

"Is it as stupid as putting yourself in front of the _Witchhunter General_?"Daryl asked and she bent down to scowl at him from under Nelly's neck.

"No one'll tell me anything, so I had to go myself. Really, you can only blame yourself."

He snorted and she grinned, circled Nelly so her back was to him. She could feel his gaze on her like a physical weight, almost as good as the shiver of use in her muscles.

"Well, he was telling me all about how a man like him tracks down a wolf -- he was awful easy to butter up, Daryl, I don't think he thinks women have brains."

"Not sure you do," Daryl muttered and she turned to glare at him.

"I know you didn't say what I think you just said," she said, hands on her hips. Nelly butted the back of her shoulder to get her back to brushing, but she kept glaring until Daryl dropped his gaze. Mollified, she turned back to Nelly, curried with increased energy until the fur was veritably flying, thick enough in the air that she had to fight back a sneeze. When she'd recovered her calm, she continued. "I think it would be awful easy to lead him away from town. Show him what he thinks he wants to see in a couple surrounding towns, then come back here once he's gone and poof, the trail's cold and he's outta our hair. So? Whaddaya think?"

Daryl spat, but not, she thought, at her. "Man like him don't stop till he's dead."

"Well, we gotta _try_," she said. "You can't just go around killing folk."

Daryl grunted noncommittally and Beth's eyebrows shot up. "Daryl..." she said warningly, "you _don't_ just go around killing folk, do you?"

"We can try it your way," he said, supremely unenthusiastic.

"That wasn't an answer, Daryl Dixon," Beth said. She didn't much like the idea of Daryl killing, and she wanted him to tell her he wouldn't, that he _hadn't_. Instead he glared at her through his bangs. "Tell me the truth," she demanded, and he looked down, started glaring at his boots instead.

"Not for no reason," he said.

The feeling was startlingly similar to when she'd dropped into the embrace of the noose -- there was that same fear, the same absolute rejection of the decision that had led her there, the same twisting knowledge that there was no taking it back. What was done could not be undone, what was known could not be unknown. She had tried to kill herself; Daryl had killed someone else. Her mouth was dry.

"How many?" she whispered. The sun, which had been so warm on her skin just moments before, might as well have gone behind a cloud. Goosebumps shivered up across her arms and legs, the back of her neck. "Daryl, how many?"

He shifted, tossed his head. His own skin shivered, and his eyes, when he looked up at her, had gone wolf-bright. He wanted to run from her so bad that he wanted to run right out of his skin, and that was such a shock that it brought the world back. This man, this . . .killer, he was afraid of _her_. What had she done to deserve that?

"Don't ask me that, Beth," he said -- no, begged. He was begging her. If she were a little more the wolf, she would be able to taste his blood in her mouth. "You don't want to know."

"Is that why you saved me?" she asked, not sure if he was right or not. "Trying to -- to balance the books?"

He jammed his hands deep in his pockets and she watched fur ripple across his forearms before it slid back under the skin. She hadn't known stress could trigger a change like that. There was so much she didn't know. "Weren't no _why_," he said. "Didn't think about it. Just... saw you is all. Don't get to help many people."

"But you want to?" she asked, trying to decide how that weighed up against killing, and did the math change if he was killing people like the Witchhunter General, and did the General deserve to be killed, no matter how much he gave her the creeps?

Daryl went silent, and Beth wondered what it meant, that he could talk about killing more easily than helping. Not that he was talking about either easily, but the difference between a dripping faucet and a closed one was still a difference.

"Daryl, how many?" she asked again, gently.

He stared at her, wretched. And then he found refuge in anger. "Why? You wanna rub my nose in it, like a dog as messed on the carpet? I ain't your _pet_, Beth, and I ain't sorry. I done what I did to _survive_ and I won't _never_ apologize for that."

He was arguing with someone else, someone she couldn't see, whose words she could only guess at from his. Someone he'd known, or himself? "I ain't asking you to," she said, eyebrows knotted. She wanted to go to him, but she'd worked with animals every day of her life, and wounded ones had to be approached with care. "I ain't asking you to be sorry, Daryl, I'm just asking how many."

"So you can turn me in to the General, get the _mankiller_ out of your hair." She hadn't gone to him, but he was coming towards her, stalking really, cigarette dropped and stubbed out, hands clenched in fists. He stank of anger and fear and pain, and Nelly yanked away from Beth and took off towards the barn. Beth stood her ground, squared up to him and didn't flinch.

"No," she said. "Never. You ain't what he says you are, no matter how hard you try to convince me he's right."

Daryl stopped coming towards her, shoulders drawing up defensively. "And what do you know about it," he said, but it was more sullen than angry. She'd surprised him out of the script in his head, and she would press her advantage.

Now Beth approached, but not with anger. She kept her hands open and low, palms towards Daryl. "I know you saved me," she said. "I know you didn't think about it, and I know you didn't do it for a reward, so I know it was instinct. And I don't think a man with instincts like that is a bad man. You can snap and growl all you like, but you still did what you did, Daryl, and that's as true of saving me as anything else." When she got close enough, she took his hand as he stared at her, wild-eyed and a second away from bolting. Carefully, she uncurled his fingers from the clenched fist. "Do you wanna add another to that number you won't tell me?"

His nails had shifted to claws and cut holes into his palm. They were bleeding sluggishly, and Beth swiped the blood away with her thumb. When she glanced up, Daryl was staring intently at his hand in hers. "Naw," he said, subdued.

"Then we'll try it my way first," she said.


End file.
